A blonde wrote to me:
I am collecting here recently a couch, one half in the other is driven, this is usually.
And here it doesn’t move, there are three centimeters left, and that’s all. I grabbed her, grabbed her, and something happened. I think I’ll pull her out later. It took 17 minutes - I know exactly, because I was sitting behind the compass. Desperate meat is spread, and in meat is torment, and doubt, and fear, and hopelessness, and guilt. This is my cat there, behind the couch, slowly from the morning, it turns out. Seventeen minutes silent alone with his shit, stuck in the wall, poor...