friskin

I named him Edward and he inhabits my desky. See how his four eyes glance furtively away from the camera? I go to him with all my troubles because I know I'm the only person who talks to him. Every day he rests his folded hands on the well polished counter. He never looks directly at me, and we both like it that way. His favourite colour is black (it brings out his eyes, he says), and he always spells wourds with exrta U's. His very best quality is the bottles lined in a row on the second shelf above his head. They are all the same. They all have the same pressure and volume and number of moles. From them he pours the wisdom that has grown as grey as his beard, and together we drink a toast to people we used to know.

Cheers.