Listen cultured friends, to a tale of a place where the poetry and parties never end, (ya don't have to sell, borrow, lend) because humaternity's all we send:

In memory of nightshift works...

A JOURNEY IN MY EYES,!!!!!!!!!!!DIRTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thoughts have changed with this one: new start, altered tone. New title (I'm toying with 'The Language of Stones'). Some new details. I'd be thrilled, as ever, with any comments proffered. N.

It was not pleasant at home and Granddad felt a little camping weekend would be good for Colin. The boy’s eyes blurred as he looked through the binoculars. If only his parents were here to see this.

I am the trilling water, pushed forever toward the rock. I am the heaviness in the kitchen air, pan-seared and spice-rubbed, the tongue darting long and short in a Morse code of desire

Put on my make up,best red dress. Walk down the street ,strut to impress. My bright red shoes have such high heels, I really must eat smaller meals. At six foot three,I look quite tall,

Daddy Bad Legs.