Monday, January 26, 2009

Cutting omelettes out of the wounded.

There is a trench in the hearts of men that is never unflooded, never unoverrun by the things that live in the soil that covers the things we so hastily bury. There is a time and a place but they rarely synchronise. The escape attempt will have to be made the old-fashioned way, since we can no longer trust our watches. And chum- dear old chum- I think that thing that ran me a race and chased me back across No Man's Land (of the heart?- Ed.) has only gone and caught up with me. And more. Worse, I mean. I think it's found a way in. To. Me. Pals?

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