12 April 1671

Dear Diary we are lost, we souls reflected in each other and given to sly remarks are no more in the habit of finding firm ground than seeking that which drifts above it, we have no forwardings save the roads on which we walk and no purpose save the absence of which it dictates, we are unusual in our shortcomings and profound in our own disdane. We are skyline drifters and this world is undecided of our repute.

11th April 1671

The soft air of spring sends clouds scuttling to faraway scarecrows to leave the roads
clear from rain, Threadbare stairwells rise at roadsides and beckon us to climb, but
 I have seen the futility of such journeys and the vacuums that lie beneath. We stop
at noon to watch an army of silent movie stars march into battle, bowler hatted,
awkward and likely to slip on banana peels.

10th April 1671

Today we met a roadside minstrel who treated us to ballads of his misspent youth which mostly involved an unfortunate incident with a horse cart and a lady of ill repute. My time is a grandfather clock ridden with woodworm and faulty of springs.

9th April 1671

There is a dearth of logic with each forward step I make and yet the illogical has always huddled closely as a friend. We eat a cooked dinner of field mice in a graveyard of stone statues which leer at us through candle lit fog, I fall asleep on grass well trodden by foxes and awake to a sky blanketed by spectres of days yet to come

8th April 1671

The thickets seep trouble unto empty country roads like crows in sullen skies, I fear reflections and shadows and walk the moss covered byways with growing unease, Tree creatures pad the path behind us, all whispers and distance, hung heavy with rags. By sunset we reach shelter by a broken wall and sing ourselves to slumber.

7th April 1671

A long night of visitations and grandfather clocks tapping on windows, the musty first breath of morning smelt of dampening walls and fur coats long hidden in closets.On the far side of a green mist that reminded us of Tuesdays we met the ghost of Charlie Chaplin who politely asked me for a cigarette, I told him I did'nt smoke and handed him a cigar.

6th April 1671

The broad sweep of daylight sends chilled night dwellers into hastily clawed holes to leave we three alone, out on open plains I spend time throwing a rescued leg bone to my chair who returns it without irony.

5th April 1671

A soft misted morning fresh with promise gave way to blue skies filled with hot air balloons and strange victorian gents riding awkward machines. My sleepy fellow travellers sprung to life as an army of hares marched past, medalled, proud and reeking of shoe polish. This town is prone to war and foolishness and holds no interest to one such as me. At the edge of town I see distant daylight stars crowding the road ahead and know I must move on.

4th April 1671

We drank wine today in a dank and smoke filled tavern, the rafters hung heavy with
the corpses of banditry and innocent alike. The afternoons drunkenness brought
 thoughts of melancholy and regret and groups of straw hatted peasants who leered

and shone candles at me through cracked grimy windows.

3rd April 1671

Soft early drifts of morning run thick with monsters hugging shadows and bellowing my name, all thoughts of peace and quiet dissipate like spring frost upon windows. My shoeless feet pad the cobbled streets followed by the clacking of an unwanted  table and chair who have now become comrades and bedfellows to my journey. By afternoon hard rain forces refuge in allyways where we eat of meagre foods and ponder our path. As I watch my new found friends slumber under stolen blankets I think of  my future paths and seasons and how thin on the ground firewood might be come winter.

2nd April 1671

Inside an old nicotine stained cafe I whiled away the day watching creepy twig people
clutch soup bowls to their chests. In the corner a small orange man stroked his heavily
bandaged head and smiled. A feeling of deep unease came across me then and

followed by my table and chair I made my way outside.

1st April 1671

I did not bring the life I have upon me, Its true I have embraced it with partially open arms but as A child I was thrown into open fields and told 'Go, Run.Seek out truth, feast from the gristle, tie sparrows to trees, have faith in midgets' I reach an old wooden town lit by blue streetlights and crumbling with damp, A sign hangs before me 'Fortune favours the long of tooth' I doubt its sentiments but admire its typeface.

31st March 1671

I walked through purple sodden fog to a field of  rusted tin men seemingly frozen mid battle, Strange animals whisper insults from the trees and throw odd pieces of masonry at my head. After sundown I wrapped myself in strange animal skins and whistled myself to slumber.

30th March 1671

They say that God is real and sits in judgement, but the wreckage at my feet serves no higher purpose. Fell asleep in a corn field while watching clouds crawl past a sun long given up on human affairs. In far off places they are drinking wine and laughing, boats launch from harbours, babies are born into chaos and I lie awaiting blankets of crows. I awoke in time to see a huge statue striding through the fields, destination unknown

29th March 1671

In Recent days I have grown accustomed to the followings of an office lamp named Douglas, Douglas is an office lamp with ambitions, An office lamp who will go far, Douglas has seen the future and it is a future which is littered with offices in need of lamps, He tells me of his past ridden with bedside lamps and candles, Lamps with no ambition, lamps with 40 watt bulbs who will burn out and fade. I wish Douglas well but I have no need of lamps, the sun rises and falls as it has always done, we walk into the future because we have no choice.

28th March 1671

I find pleasure in the strangest things, clocks raining on hillsides, dwarfs digging holes in which to hide vagrants, Vegetables uprooting en masse and running down country lanes. They tell us 'the world is ours' but I find it slipping through my fingers each day

27th March 1671

Strange weather holds horses to paddocks and flattens early morning grass, I awake to the smell of bonfires in far off places forever taking me home. To die here would be pleasure but footsteps take me on, outwards to new worlds and the scream of life forever new, new distance, new troubles, I dream of winter and coldness that sets to the bone

26th March 1671

By an old swamp filled with half submerged office furniture I shook hands with a sad faced wastrel who carried a birdcage filled with bats, He talked hesitantly about Belguim and trenchfoot and smiled warmly when I mentioned he reminded me of tuesdays, Later in a clearing I found a wooden leg roasting chestnuts and singing songs of its youth.

25th March 1671

Distant drums call from coastal villages, waking me from slumber. I walk a pathway through suburban gardens filled with ancient sunhouses, ghosts of cats and dogs run at my feet. My bag is packed with memories and sandwiches and morning clouds seem to follow with ease, shadowy gardeners leaning on wooden spades and hoes watch me as I pass, forward there is future, behind me broken paths

24th March 1671

There is nothing wrong, nothing untoward or amiss, No one is hiding in hedgerows or crouching unseen on pantry shelves, no black dogs scratching at doors or bats in distant belfries, my gardens are clear from ghouls and unwanted guests, the madness and flux run of unwanted, my windows bring only daylight, dark clouds seek someone else but me