Now for the happy times this rebirth, this practical castle in cloud cuckoo land where the ones with the bellies and the benzies are talking and talking and talking about the happy times. My bicycle has acquired wheels and is driving through the streets all on its own carrying a standard eight pupil, and my sister is beheading the Port Jacksons. It is the uitlanders, those tsotsis, she is quite xenophobic these days. But now for the happy times when we will be all one and the vultures will eat our children off the roadside. Today I received a letter met an acquaintance who spoke to me saw a car burning in the next street in our new-won freedom which sprawled bone and flesh on the dirt roads.
Nothing is nothing is nothing.
That is how we enter the really happy times of our continental rebirth depending on the wind and el nino and how well we have been able to sleep last night. Because dreams can be exhausting. You see the streets full of dead people and ask yourself where they came from.