13th April 1671

Today we walk with violins,chattering on roots and leaky radiators and pianos waiting to fall. This landscape resembles candle wicks and dashes of Morse code.  The table has left us for a packet of parsnip seeds and the promise of pizzicato lessons after the 4th of Never. I think about kicking the chair, but my toes are attached, so I don't. We lie together, imagining geese instead of stones beneath our heads. Tomorrow is a hermit crab,stalking the horizon so I roll leaves into my ears for protection and hope it's crumpets for breakfast instead of slugs.

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