Something of lapsed ways, disintegrations, chafe surges of already smarting mind chatter this morning as every morning awaiting more new old, old new arrivals.
what to do?
ritually cheese off the ninety three percent as a seven percent brit, according to Arts Council Britain. Probably less percent if considering materials cobbled; rust crumble, paint peelings, limbless dolls with found limbs, headlessmannequin with inverted nipple awaiting an arrival of sorts, perhaps mosaics pinkted from Viv Westwood printed collections of fancifully adorned bondage, over a skin of skillish fibresparkle glimpses in old lady pink.
i am sure i have left the iron on!