…One of the things they taught me at High Furrow was that love has gone out of fashion.
‘Love, is passé,’ they said.
In fact, so outmoded a concept was love that the people there could not even bring themselves to say the word.
In order to put love in its place they changed its spelling and pronunciation.
They called it ‘lurve’.
Now this is a terrible thing.
The day love dies is the day the world ends.
But I am the last person to speak for love.
To see me struggling about the gaff would be to assume I had slung the woes of the world across my shoulders and that nothing could possibly shift them, ever.
Most of the time now all I can see before me is a grisly end, while the past…
The past looks like a bombed shack.
It is just a mess of dusty bricks and twisted piping which even when standing never really amounted to anything very much.
But when the sky rained down fire and hail it merely put an end to a miserable edifice.
Who am I trying to kid?
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