nice morn, sun shone, over crest of mountain; longish crest, like a crescent; sun shone, entry sponge.
there has to be an end to this, sponge said and continued, bloody soli, yea that’s how you’re meant to call them, soli. not solos or the likes, know what i am talking about. soli. we have a culture going on here.
now would you, said breadroll — who meanwhile had sneaked in to stick on the kettle — and grew almost silent. that’s me, i think, for today, he said, now would you believe?
no, said sponge, but i know man untied hasn’t been quite up to it recently and that shall shed a light.
certainly will, said breadroll, tea?
yes please, said sponge.