Obligatory "ignore this space" : https://sacoronavirus.co.za

Getting angry with the folks because it's taken me sixteen years to make up my mind about something, which we must yet treat as a matter of luck, I recall the days the three of us played a happy family.

We came into conflict many times, but for the most part we would have been happy to be living in a fish-bowl. Happy fish give themselves happy thoughts for the future.

'One day we'll turn that motorbike into a go-cart.'

But that thought itself takes me back thirty years, to when I, bethinking I had been given as much independence as a man could wish for, cycled around a town which wasn't allowed to be called the centre of the greater area, though in truth it yet is. On my bicycle, the design of which had been named after a form of motorcycling that makes me cross, I came across a father and son pair; the father of which allowed me the enjoyment of his home-built go-cart.

There are more reasons than one that I think with fond memories of Hillcrest. Someone had taught me not to rip a bag open and then look for a vessel; for manipulation allows us to call a bag a vessel.

I like the idea of a go-cart, but I also like the idea of putting sticks into the shape of one, and imagining that I'm a world famous driver: we in fact had a step-ladder which doubled up as a chair, which itself I might call world-famous.

But those days are over.

A ladder is a ladder and a stool is a stool, and anyone who looks at the word stool and thinks that there might be another meaning deserves void main() { printf("Hello, World.");

  return; }

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