Soothed by the lane-ways and buildings of Collingwood, a nip of gin and a nestle into my sweetheart's arms. I will be admitted to Rendle's clinic this afternoon, to kill off this love of V.A.S - the trilogy of women who have tortured me - VenArnSal.

My father was from Basque country sitting between Spain and France. He liked to remind me that it was a northern language and the oldest living language in Europe. His father made cheese in the foothills of the Pyrenees, until one day his wife went out to look for him, having not returned from his dairy at the usual time and found him seated motionless, beside a bale. His wife, VAS, called the neighbour, saying she didn't know what was going on and he chided her like a child. “You foolish woman, the man is dead”. She felt a great shame thereafter and left the Basque Country - Mifune

Budd Street Lane-Way

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita - Nabokov