Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
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Sunday, 30 May 2010
Whores d'ouvres.
A dull grey morning spent attempting to write a torch song.
Bob Dylan's 'you're going to make me lonesome when you go' doesn't help much.
Then a 'chanteuse' in Soho posed the question: "Are we all prostitutes"?
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