The inconvenience of time has burdened death upon my shoulders, or shall I treat this as respite? There are a  million stories running wreckless, drawn to Old Hat's tree. I drift away and into clouds and out, I bless all tales untold, and only wish that our corners would remain in darkness.The world is upside down and back to front and the wrong way round,  may it always so remain.

                     Yours Forever and Sincerely,

                                                         Hetariat March 

4th May 1671

I Speak in spectrals and broken english, language is no longer necessary to a lifeless soul as I. The numbness rises and my poor dead body lays unknown, I am fairy lights in ashes and old cobwebs spun anew. I am a gentle breeze on road side shrubs and storms in far off places, I am the moats of sunlight upon waking and the fog which clouds your windows at night, my story is in your birth cries and settles in the dew upon your grave. I am now all things and nothing, all the things you need and everything you ignore, I have no meaning and life meant nothing. but through the madness and happenstance, the colours and sounds, the quiet moments and the loudness of a life which screamed from cradle to grave, It meant only that I was alive.

3rd May 1671

These little moments are crossed by symbols and threads which lead into lifetimes swollen  with regret, Judy Garland brings roses which she lays upon my knees, and I think about how strange this is and how worried I should be, but these thoughts rise into clouds which drift eastwards into days I shall never see. I am not the man I thought and neither that which I need to be, but brave seas keep rolling and empires rise and fall.

2nd May 1671

We are only flashes in the grand scheme of nothing, Fireworks exploding without audience, we rise and fall and ponder and tear our hair and no one really cares. Dear friends I hope you walk tall in all your days, I hope you take life by the throat because those black birds circle and generations to come will walk upon your graves without care. There is so much to life at the beginning and so very little at its end, I wish only for the solace of the ocean and peace which it may bring.

1st May 1671

I see a darkness rise and friendship with time grow thin, these windows that we gaze through shall outlive us and quietly observe sunrise after sunrise while we fade into memory, I sit shore bound and unafraid, A small bearded man plays accordion on nearby rocks and I wish once more for the madness and the surf and tide and the twist of life lived upside down. I wish to walk further and to see another day. The sun sinks into the ocean, opening pathways and stars which shine above. 

30th April 1671

And morning wakes me with churchbells in faraway places and lonely starfish which slumber at my feet and I know that I am home, these wasted threads of life recall longings for the person I have been and the strangest of times that I have lived through and I can see the paths of mourning which bring me to the shore, I gather lobsters as friends and awkward insects which carry wine and candles to lay me to my rest. I am confused and ready to die.

29th April 1671

And on this day I sight beasts of burden, rich in turmoil and awkward of charm walking the road ahead and I wonder where this takes us, these days of low lit sun and strangeness and rusted gates dragging sheep skulls into open fields. Out there birds are breaking clouds and  further space throws comets into orbits and we are tied to soil and dust and our own sense of nothing.

28th April 1671

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.

27th April 1671

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. 

26th April 1671

I climb aboard a rusted barnacle covered train which takes me downstream and into open plains. A gent opposite whose wooden head rests upon a spring shows me the contents of his case which glows blue and green with the star fish within. 'The fallen stalk amongst us' he says 'and mark our every move.' I gaze out the window

and see strange creatures move from tree to tree. We are only chaos tracing a line from cradle to grave and finding what we need.

25th April 1671

I am not sure when time began or when history stopped recording but inbetween
there is me and all the strangeness and desperations that rest upon my shoulders.
And these are such worrying and unfortunate times that fellows will call out as if to
warn me and yet I continue to look upon them with scorn because these fellows have
no such place at my side.
And yet I carry windows that faces can look into, in hope that friendship shall occur.
I am cloaked in distance and haunted by mortality and clockwork chickens. 

24th April 1671

Morning breaks like an arthritic giant causing  flutterings of noise and half hearted
murmers. Moss covered cobbled stones direct me to a sign hung heavy with
irony and woodworm,

'Come Directionless and muddled, Come And Savour The Sights Unknown'

A moments pause could mean a lifetime, so after 5 I stumble on.

23rd April 1671

I sleep these days in abstract, short bursts that carry me down country lanes and leave me tangled on barbed wire fences. A sad old yellow moon casts shadows on the road ahead and does much to unsettle cats. I think of home and the miles and days between us and know I shall never return.

22nd April 1671

At 4:15 I was awoken by bird song and shadows and planets racing by. Sometimes life greets you by handshakes and welcomes and sometimes by indifference. I dress myself regardless and prepare for rain. In an old fallen shelter I light fires, to surround myself with distance and sleepwalk through the night. 

21st April 1671

They say 'beware the strangers of kindness and think of things unthought' but we believe in moments above such whimsy and visit wrath upon only those who stand in our way. If we are such doomed accomplices it is only through circumstance and loss of way. If these days are important it is only because we are alive. And if the world comes to us untethered and baiting us to fight? We shall make like crows and hide amongst trees. 

20th April 1671

Some days I feel my life is a river running into waterfalls and crashing to rocks below, but today it is a shrubbery gathered around a sullen pond clammy with frogspawn. I saw Van Gough wrestle Goya in a clearing and Churchill ordering sparrows from his lawn and knew what day it would be and why. 'We are all waiting for trouble 'Churchill shouted ' and trouble shall eat us in the end' I doubt his motivation for such thoughts. 

19th April 1671

Smokestacks spew animal ghosts into clouds which run off giddy and confused. I spy old Mr death out on the road ahead, he walks in broad daylight, tipping his hat and grinning at friends yet to come, all pinstriped and chaotic. A journey such as mine will bring death to my heels but I climb a tree regardless. 

18th April 1671

A blanket of fog swept over hillsides and nestled on the road ahead, giving me time to wipe crows from my shoulders and think on journeys past. By noon the sun had painted far off villages with soft light and longing and fearing only beetles and stilt men I gathered my dwarves and carpets and continued on. 

17th April 1671

My eyes awake to honey coated skylines and peppermint clowns teaching animals to sing, there is an awareness in me now, a feeling of place and time holding me to the spot like rags on  barbed wire fences. I count faces in clouds and smile when spiders try to steal my legs. I have seen such things which amount to nothing and envied youth which crumbles to dust. A man on stilts asks me to follow him and I think of nothing better to do. 

16th April 1671

It is a strong wind which blows needle children onto freshly mown grass and drifts confused starlings from trees, and for once I am at loss to stand tall in the face of nature's melancholy rage so I bide my time in refuge and sing songs from someone else's youth. The sweet calm of evening brought broken badgers and wooden legged emus who rummaged in foliage for chestnuts and slovenly luckless worms. The warm smell of woodchip filled the air as I  stuffed my backpack with forest foods and badgers, I stumble ever forward as regret aims arrows at my back.