And they all lived happily ever after. Not really.
If anything, they were worse off than before:
bits of flesh dangled from bones,
hair was on fire, eyes were inside out.
Not really. They queued up in a post office
for the two hours. Not really. A cloud
swallowed them up and poured them
over a dead field. Not really. They all enjoyed
small talk in a lift. Not really.
One of the characters was a telephone
ringing at 2am with the power of a thousand
horses running over an eyeball. Not really.
I didn’t get round to watching it. Not really.

© Carl Burkitt 2021