I reckun recuds are the best thing since sliced beds / any ears of yer head should / would enjoy a spin with a needle and vibrations. I’ve got one hundred and six. Recuds that is not needles I ain’t. Theyer bigger than seedees and tangible unlike those peethrees. And any album worth it’s worth has a cover worth the girth. The art is everything. I’ve got one hundred and forty flurve. And listenin to an album in it’s intended order rather than the busslin of the shufflin / and a crackle and a spit for your attention. I’ve got two hundred and seventeen I have I have. With their sleeves and their smells and their dust on the shelves. Two hundred and twenty seven further recuds.

Live from a cave with a mouthfulla choclit comes updates of continued existence. Now knowing the joy of four wheels and the appeals of another woman with her tree doctor husband. Also in the process of being funny on ma feet. Here’s hopin. Ma sweet. Big beat. A treat. A dame. A drundle.

Then I asked Roy for some eggs and a little originality and he flew off to the moon on a handle.

In a pig, y’all.

Roy Evans and his obsession with numbers / hand in hand / got out of hand and out of luck. He ses he’s predicted the date that’ll die / why? / don’t ask but it’s a lie that’s for true for me and you / the few that care / are all aware he’s merely highlighted coincidence. And while he were stewin in his musin over mid-morning muesli / wondering what that fateful far away future day may bring / I put this to him and he said ‘well surely that’s the beauty of coincidence.’