Hunting the Imaginary Penguin


I can hear:

“What would want to”

Repeated as a phrase. Over and over. It makes no sense.

A wealthy family. The house is huge. Too many books, most unread. Old cameras in drawers. They are nice but have way too much stuff.

Waiting for an imaginary penguin to appear, others search for it, and I encourage them, knowing that their search is futile.

We go into a dark bathroom. Ducks and geese are in the bath. Kids dressed as penguins splash the water. The door shuts behind us. We are locked in.

I unlock the door. I am back in Wolverhampton. I polish furniture, and a huge silver throne style seat, that was designed for in car use.

Outside, Mexican children play, and my Jamaican neighbours bemoan the state of the United Kingdom.

πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§πŸ‡¬πŸ‡§

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