SUNDAY BREAKFAST

To employ a tried and true, but maybe tired, cliché, I woke up this morning. It was much earlier than I intended, and found I myself suffering a certain disorientation as the transition from the madness of the USA to madness of Merry Old England continued the spontaneous rewiring of my consciousness. And that’s no fucking fun when find yourself all alone in loveless, old-fool isolation with a cat that eats Weetabix. Thus I could only do the sensible thing and resort to the ever reliable hash pipe so kindly provided by a kind friend and filled by another.

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The secret word is Keef