Meanwhile, I sat at a fold-out table, staring at cards –
- the cards that advertise hookers, to be found in any red London postbox
- the Tarot
- La Lotteria (a Mexican game of chance)
- All the jokers from every pack I could lay my hands on.
- cigarette cards, antiquated curios – stolen from an old man’s priceless collection.
- Vintage erotic postcards from L’age D’or, if you will – an age of style, texture and substance. Bettie Page.
The lady sat on the bed, thinking aloud which image would suit her, for since her last visit there were so many more to choose from. My own thoughts were with the soul of one who told me of the seasons and what they each signified, without whom I am lost. I go about with a vague expression, and the vague hope of catching raindrops.
The Hare’s Gathering became louder as they began throwing paint around with wreckless abandon. Which blinded at least some of them, as they let out screams of joy.
“I’m trying to concentrate!” I shouted, knowing that my meagre and simple words could never do justice to this picture.