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I went to the market for a duck and came home with a mallard in feather, so freshly shot that it would still be warm if it weren't so cold and foggy out there.

I should probably hang it for a day or three - but where in this house could I do that, without the boys going "Ooh, birdie! Thank you, Chaz!" *pounce* *om-nom-nom*...?

There's always the roofspace, I suppose - but getting into the roof demands acrobatics of which I am barely capable once a year. Twice in a week is ... offputting. And with crippled shoulders, too...

And in other news: of course they didn't fucking finish. They never fucking finish anything. They never came back from their lunch-break; I have gateposts and no gate.

Never mind. It really doesn't matter. Gate is inevitable, in eventuity. I live all my life in the moment still to come.

In other news, I saw a bunch of short films yesterday, and - well, I dunno. They are of course inherently generic, it's the nature of the form: flash fictions, rather than short stories. You get a spoonful of menace, or a Moral Issue neatly packaged and explained, or an exercise in nostalgia or sentimentality wrapped up in enigma. They are a confection, if not a blown egg: an instance, not an exploration. It doesn't seem to me to be enough.

But then, I said that I didn't see the point of an animation if everything in it could be done so much more easily live-action; from which we followed to the logical inevitable conclusion - which we all knew already - that I really don't see the point of all those pictures when you could just write it down in words and give me a story. I am not your target audience, y'know...?
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desperance

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