Potential seventy-five million
It is stunning to see the club, after sixty five years standing open for only fifteen minutes. Record premierships, trophies, meditation things in this museumeatory place.
Ah, a random discarded suckbox legend.
A speckled emerald hero.
A random eye-test letter.
A missed chance.
Two feet running towards victory.
A pointing finger that has been lost from a statue.
Something coming alive after death. Fog-forming later.
Central countryside death.
A family with teeth problems.
Families walk past and thicken up. Chilly hand-shakes create tension in the darkness. Tourists push up to the Ripper exhibits. Fascinating rip-belly interest. A lady, sixty-five, calls out for her husband as her face is pushed up against glass-horrors.
A picture of a picture of a picture, documenting moments lost.
My kiss with another mouth shut.
The mask that was put across my face, gas counting 5,4,3,2,1.
The numbers 5, 17 and 6.
A touchy-feely station containing various garments of pleasure.
Velvet, silk, satin, ribbon, fur, soft things.
The trial of a war criminal.
Man's fatal errors.
The memory of a camp scarf.
The drip of water on an upturned face.
Nothing more frightening and lonely - entitled 'Pain'.
What was started on a step of a house, mouth on mouth, that was never finished.
Battle Sphinx climbs towards death.
I'm asking you to move forward. Do not stop here too long. Step away from the glass. Do not touch. Do not move. Do not hesitate here. Move forward. Step away. Step away. Step away.