‘Twas midsummer’s morn and in a field, a little rabbit sat, thinking of his life, and other things like that. He thought of the clouds and of the fish in the sea,

For me, a nursery is not the most enjoyable of places to spend my time since not only do I not know one type of plant from another I also hate kids.

Much to the relief of my snobbish superiority complex, I wasn’t born in Frome where I’d go to school, have some rather crappy jobs and in a case of mistaken identity one evening be dragged out of

Caught amongst branches, A rattling Prisoner of the wind

Life is an escalation of memories one pain at a time

She is like a ghost, a bloated corpse of dead days, With her multitudes writing and grinding, as the Curses of their god rain on their heads. An orgy of ignorance, wrapped up in lies

I have never wished more than I could drink and drive. Trevor won’t stop singing songs in some sort of stupid language that sounds like he’s strangling himself.

Final part. Contains lots of swearing and a bit of violence.