Wednesday, May 31, 2006

The fabled half slice

They'd finally gotten him down to the base nuggets of his wherewithal. Or so it seemed. To see a head opened like that, and to realise, after a would-be cushioning delay, that it's my own head...well, indeed.

Funny to think that a thirty year-ago summer afternoon spent sprawled on the grass reading boys' papers is, in fact, a pinhead-sized spot of grey sludge, there, on the end of somone's fork. Well, they don't call them forks. They have technical names for the tools of the trade. Very sharp. Like the operators themselves. Unblinking. My fondest Christmas memory lies on the draining board by the sink, dying as it dries out.

The songs I'll never know I heard.

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