Hi hi hi, draugai. Pfidze in presence. Because Mr Kettle is in quote, pursuit of sedentary rapture, unquote, he asks me to go through his archive and choose poems and memories and reflectives for blurb-stuffing. So this is such.

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March 27, 1983

Mabel has gone home. In vain were my efforts to keep buoyant the honeymoon weekend. I will be the first - in this case, second - to admit that Wolverhampton is not Paris. But the deal needed closing and who needs the damn French anyway?

I have composed a tone prose in dishonour of the experience.

ANHEDONIA (A WOLVERHAMPTON WEEKEND):

The only thing for which to hope is hope itself. The people of Anhedonia no longer live. They bear the load with clouded eyes, sallow skin and interiors once decorated with dreams. They don't eat. They fe ...