The lady's body has fallen off the toilet door, she is only a round circle, a head. Inside there is a new hand dryer, powerful but smelling of vacuum cleaners, call me a Luddite but I'm gonna stick with the paper towels. My skin still smells of chlorine. When I left at dawn for the swimming pool a right-angled green caterpillar was sitting on my windscreen wiper. How did he get so lost? Why would a caterpillar sit on my car in an underground garage when the grass is burgeoning, the rhododendrons are flowering. What made him leave his caterpillar hatchlings, the happy brood Apple, Core, Skin, Pip, Husk and the others, to end up in this sterile place? I mentioned this to the man I was drinking with, we were born in the same hospital, perhaps the same bed; he thought I was drunk and went back to talking about music. My fingers typed, computer programming, e-mails, oh some fun e-mails, and now this, the bulletin of my week. My head is not a round circle but a maelstrom, incoherent today.
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