
I’m beginning to feel like a crunchy chip of Soylent Green
What do THEY want for us?
Sometimes stories, sometimes drawing, sometimes life or death interventions about leggings or cabbage soup, from the south bank of the Tejo.
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What do THEY want for us?

this should be the title of my next novel

In which a beetroot is shamed on a bus

I don’t know how long it lasted.

and Bee, and Harold, and Tilly

In the olden days, policemen and national guards weren’t all metrosexual beefcakes, with their tightly trimmed beards and biceps.

and embracing the clunk

and how it resulted in my being crushed

A repository of stories about Portugal, north and south.

It only appears in August