Monday, November 20, 2006

Roomcheck here now, torn up and craned over unless you do me up proper-like. Oh guard-fluffer, oh combover, cue that royal look of yours, tinkled in protest. Cos I’m not leaving. We will deep-hang here, spill drinks over each other’s laps, look for small mistakes no one else will see. No telling who will be out by Friday. No word yet from finale-themed company men. No fulfilling-service yet, in the company of.Word is—fanned hands now—today.


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