• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 10
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Bad match

Hello hello yes I see you've noticed we had different motives for getting "involved" – ugh. I'd rather watch a child pick paint off the wall or wait for the 136 bus to arrive. Little things that waste time but please me nevertheless. Like saying "hypotenuse" or "circadian." You sort of knew it once and wouldn't look it up again, you prefer the smog of half-it. So what I like his shins and he likes my stereo system. Halfway through a bad recipe do you stop or carry on? I prefer to take my cake out of the oven half-risen, a dip in the centre, wet with egg and tasting of mash, and eat it anyway.

My mother had a recipe like this which we all made, every birthday, and it never rose, always undercooked, but we wouldn't change it, and after we ate it we danced on the tables and drank apricot liqueur and it was the best time of my life. Every time.

Marco Alba, in 1546, fell in love with a woman who pulled all the hair off her hairbrush and let it fall onto the street. He used to take the hair home and do unspeakable things with it. When she found out she felt a bit sick, but also compelled to meet him later that evening behind the church.

I don't know how it works, but it works: the helicopter rescued someone and I swam moments after.