Happiness is a cigar called dynamite.

I omitted this on purpose yesterday, purely a result of impatience. Tell not a soul. This scene shows writing on a Whitstable wall. Do not be alarmed, the author is probably knees-to-chin in a nut box as you read. Pity the drool scourers.



The weird thing is, the handwriting looks like my own. Maybe this is a hidden talent, throwing my writing through time and space. I would have to have been very out of it to use the word 'wrong' in this way. I'd like to say that it could only happen at gunpoint, which makes me wonder about 'France'...