it's just this perpetual whining in the ears, a common drone that appears to exude from that cabinet in which the head of the last landlord is stored. despite my insatiable cleaning habits, the stain proceeded to seep and discolor the lace hanky that took me years to complete, being woven from the garments of mine enemies that befell sudden deaths. it's hard to convince grieving widows to hand over suit jackets but there it was, shining in the sunlight and cradling that pesky box. soiled now, ruined and that obfuscating damn noise that will not stop despite my valiant efforts at self treppaning.
2 comments:
As dark as tar and ar more sticky. Delightful. I can see you now, hunched over your sewing machine, shears to the right of you, an imperious Bowie knife to the left and hanging from the ceilings rafters the scalps of all those foolish Californians who sought to bandy words with you. And of course there is the cabinet; the one that sits behind you with your collection of heads.
Marvellous!!
ah yes, love...i see your effort at installing the perpetual spy eye has come to fruition..
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