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Your mother that hideous lovely lady with the bagpipe voice and aluminium alloy pelvis. You turned your back picture to me and wept into the wall with a finger in one ear and the telephone earpiece pressed hard against the other. The lobe of that ear looked so red picture and bright like a fat pink leech. You didn't want to let me see you cry. I left the room and found a window and watched a picture lawnmower floating in the sky. Looking out above the city, I watched the crap in the air float upwards. Newspaper, bottles, black baseball caps, aluminium cans, broken umbrellas, dead cats, rolls of toilet paper unwinding long white tails, dirty underwear, cotton candy, a box of half eaten heart shaped chocolates, a pair of hand cuffs, somebody's resume. Is it not wonderful to look out the window and see the loose things of the city escape? -o0o- Later, you told me what your mother said. How your father, the farmer, rose up slowly. You told me how your mother wailed on the other end of the phone grieving her loss and complaining about the basketball of a goiter perched on her shoulder.
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