Washed Up Bread Bag

One dozy day, late last year, I was skulking around my local sandy cleaning after a nipply swim with dog dog. “Mmmmm what is this pretty un–pretty!”

so much num num and texture from tossing and travelling in the fishes’ liquid. Y o i n k . . . You’re coming home with me! And now my bread bag, you are silk. The end of the beginning.