Continental Drift

It moves me to comfort to realise that you've relocated and begun to put some roots in when you've staggered home to your new digs staggering under the influence.

Or rather, I'll append, stagered home sozzled, well past last drinks, closing time and post-pub roadside banter, volleys of wit, abuse and hollow half-threats, after lift-hitching from the closest coastal village to finally bumble to the griller to burn up some post-piss comfort food pre-boudoir...

I scratch out these letters quickly so their trippings, tumble out words to chase each other in sentencing while holding breath in wait for the jackpot-register-ChaCHING of the toaster voicing its completion of the burnt bread extravaganza below. There shall be marmite involved or course - a fickle substitue for pauper and Englishman alike. First course, I salivate unconvinced of the prospect or being sated with the duo of well spread bread; twins!

I masticate and reminice toward tears of old past loves echoing like savoury toppings. It's futile, I accept, but withdraw regardless smiling at its small comfort during the decent into these cryptic, wee hours.

It's here in darkness, postrate, that I ponder anitquated versions of my past; versions, infinte, that never were but existed regardless on the other side of the mirror. I fever with indicated possibilities of what could have been but for this current self-defence-stance. I recoil and sleep, patiently stalking, makes moves to strike.

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