Cut-price sun. Bank Holiday in the Public Gardens. Every green is a bulb, spiderwebbed with filament. The light between leaves too easily mistaken for the morse-flash of lenses. The fountain is a mossy, black candle
He's rumbled sifting through everyone's post, just for fun, his fingers catching envelopes like gecko tongues, rattling the little brass door of his mailbox, out the other end (the sorting room,
A noble, jungle-dwelling loner goes giddy for the princess of a local village, whose father, bedecked in a headdress that compels doorway ducking, is the 'no daughter of mine' type
