some people seeking perfection, their dream in music decline. have their own reality, ideals, unreasonable requests. we found the shade, missed any remarkable rainfall, ate the cherries, at the royal welsh. no are no demands, no disappointments. these are the days, a repetition. sbm.
hot fitful evening. wine and itching skins. enigmatic man. again continued the interview. good teeth, skin aging well despite the sun. he answered questions beautifully, mysteriously sayng, that he could say nothing about most things. he may have been a spy, for the cia. it is the royal welsh today. sbm.
only imagine the place closed. it is colder this morning. mrs ciano to be removed, one part back to the museum, the other packed and ready to go, back, whence. she came from an imagination, all bloodied bandages, hymned words. in two parts, splinter time. google her remains. the curator moves on. mrs ciano. sbm.