have searched the archives lately.
find he knows stuff, facts, and figures while i am astounded . the sun comes out by the drawers. open they show me birds and insects did you know they cross their fragile legs and tie with cotton threads.
school parties, crocodile rows. she said there was an accident waiting to happen on the stairs, while others marched shouting, little roman soldiers. i hid in the auditorium and checked the spelling.
the title, not of my writing. the larger picture , detailed me into submission. revisited.
blesses without recording. we have the radio. this museum here.
the name will be the title, length an object. all else is waxed and tied as usual, making it unusual. when i explained, she asked why will you do that? because of the chained library here.
i found perfumed , decked with statues and sympathetic leaflets to no avail. i saw the people here. studio, still, paintings. i saw the artist there. the museum, past locked behind glass, and computerised screens, swimming
she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like your museum with pins and labels. i am pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a new ribbon.
we work towards a new installation, whilst remembering all that there is
in the museum.