'You melt my narrative . . . I'll glass your mind,'
said the little beauty. Snow jobs are a curse on
every nomad looking for a well or avoiding time.
'Confused I may have been. When did you last
see a semblance?' So much for imagining images.
So much for the system and its gang of options.
Then I asked, "Who's getting the drinks in?' It
was the last time I heard the boom in nostalgia.
Lo, over Farnborough. All that shimmer round
the wings! Nothing like his approach, based as
it was on drafts and how intensive the striation.
'Still, I've seen a lot worse,' he remarked. 'Take
money and disgrace — they both come leaping
from high places, don't they? Voiding a curse.
Willy-nilly. Avoiding the null, like good 'uns!'
A decent ruse; if you can't make a bad job pay,
you've got to do something? 'So, smash it all
up and start again!' Whereupon he hit the road.