here we all are, brass band playing.

he wrapped it all in private eye, the things,
like tiny mummies, so i will photograph
them, open them later, for delight and
some amusement, calling it all work.

for work it is, alongside
walks and tom fripperies
of day and night blankets.

comfort to allay his words
of sadness. hotmail is down
right now.

sbm.