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Don't Eat With Your Mouth Full

Where can we live but days?

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steepholm steepholm
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My Secret Diary, Aged Fourteen and Three Quarters - a Reconstruction
I've been invited to pogo to Sham 69 this evening, with friends. They will talk about motorcycles, look at pornography, and drink beer from cans. I enjoy the beer, but would rather listen to Genesis. (No one must ever know!)

My shoes are still wet and muddy from yesterday's solitary walk to Squabb Wood. The poem I wrote about the experience seems, in retrospect, as ill-advised as the route.

A surprise in this morning's post. It's a letter from my fifty-four-year-old self, advising me that it really does get better. "Go easy on yourself," it read. "You're special - the only you in the whole wide world. Think of that!"

So, there you have it. It seems I'm destined to become a pompous bore. But when? Has the process already begun? Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse.

Perhaps I could grow to love Sham 69, in time.