DEAR DEAR I'M DONE

That's it, I can't read anymore. My eyes are done, at the very least. The letters of Louis' that I have come to call Dear Dear can now go glide a while, over a headland. I'm done. Translation tears you in two. How do you do. The camera I sold to a woman wearing in her hair a red swirly ribbon. The computer I sold to Hagerty, a local who answered the ad. He wanted it for his girlfriend for university, before her father jumped in and bought her one in his place. Beat him to the punch he did. That'll show him. Hagerty is due to pick up the machine in the morning. He's already paid full in cash. Good bloke they call him. I ask him what he knows about hostels in Melbourne. He shakes his head, says he might one day see me there. But says it could take a while. This is a record. I do not know what I will find. Letters are often a lie.