what would Biggins do? when I find myself in times of trouble… it isn’t actually Mother Mary that comes to me, for in the horns of a dilemma, or brought up sharp at a crossroads,
carryon crunching down on a meal of gravel, my teeth, red raw and shattered, bawl with enamel duress. as i choke on bloodied regret. the ground caught my cheek in awkward landing.
the woodwork mirror an ill-bred design, assembled from comprehensive impatience: awkward geometry, and timber bruises of a badly managed sanding machine. triple angled plinth,