What does it all mean?
Not just the title above,
but life itself?
A picture of a scone, soon,
might be trite –
as is much that I write –
but is it any different
from all else that will suffice
to be the stuff
that nightmares
are made on?
.
Please excuse my wittering
(I can witter at will)
and take this from my words:
‘If you have just received
a picture of a scone
through the post,
it has probably already arrived.’