Correspondence of a sort unseen –
the desperate measures gang are hanging round the lamp posts on the streets again –
periodically the lights go off for no apparent reason –
one of the gang is speculating that it might be him that’s making it do that – who knows, he could be right
then the sound came in and sat down in the middle of the room and said hail and hardy all me folk and kin
t’was twilight and the strings were being pulled
every conscience in the book was watching some TV and sipping on a drink and nibbling on a snack when merry had its little lamp turned into a dusty buster – what a fookin raket dat ting makes, my son, my son
don’t mind me, I’m from over here –
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