a spasm of sprung hair I can see an amiable grey in the teeth her hand comes down, rests gently on me I detect something of a need she says don't call my squares pretty or say the same of my circles of duty yes, it's a lovely space if four white walls they make a lovely space looks like we've already run out of things to say meaning must be created if good books are to be believed emptiness must be filled even in spoiled rats like me you were just a chicken bone in a science coat when I had fair hair now we both live alone and you want to meet up for what god only knows and what your friends can only suspect meaning must be created if good books are to be believed emptiness must be filled even in spoiled rats with growing bones under grey suit coats ink in the hair meaning wasn't created, just given back then now it all seems to hang by a hair and the memory of a herring bone in a painter's coat clipboard and pen your friend was living alone I bet, and I see she's dying the death of a thousand cigarettes