There is a feeling which greets you sometimes and yells you to your feet then runs of regardless and leaves you encumbered by dwarfs and odd pieces of machinery, and you wake from such dreams and check to see that your arms are still functionary and your wonderings are still stable, I climbed old walls underneath which time dug holes. The sky holds me and walks me into ruin.
For most there is no road to damascus, just tiny silent moments of realisation which flutter away come dawn. Today I passed a grey man carrying a tree filled with birds. They know me on these down beaten back roads and at times I feel they fear to speak my name, But I am nothing, just a weathered rag drifting through open fields eroded by time.