Fast.  Fasssssst, and swirling, all colours and noises and bangs.  Smoke now, loud bangs and pops and screeching and screaming of tyres and violins and crashing, explosions as the tarmac bucks, cracking and melting, pulled apart like traitorous limbs, swells and your toes frazzle like fingers in a car boot, and I’ve dropped my dinner plate which splinters into pieces…

….I’m eight years old suddenly.  I’ve got a knot in my stomach…

…and the old piano smells worse than the dinner, as the glass cups with last year’s thumb marks vibrate to the tremor and then everything is pitched.  I’m scared of the witch, and the long grass that has consumed my belongings.  I’m curious about the arch of trees but I can’t make it because strong hands grab my waist like the tentacles of an octopus.  But as the last triangles of the shattered plate spin away, everyone leans in and I look at a peeling ceiling and feel the silence. 

Really quiet.  Actually peaceful.


I can remember paving slabs, and every trip and stumble.  I waft down smooth corridors on a cloud, my feet not touching the mass of fingers that make up the carpet.  All burnt stumps waving in an invisible breeze.  Guided by the silver worm, I find myself travelling through the hectares as the corn tide crashes and sweeps us all away; a tsunami of cereal and copper rings green from rejection or loss. 

I still know every blade of grass on that hill.  My footprints are there and impossible to remove, like those on the Moon undisturbed by wind.  Mine are cemented and protected from memory, or events, or anything else you care to throw into this battle.  I could stand still and see a thousand me’s, dressed differently but all facing the same direction, all silent.  I’d see the returning clouds.  I’d carve my name into the dried mud, and it would still be there. 

So I remain, standing in a field.  Arms out like a crap jesus.  The wind and earth remembers.  It says welcome back.  I say, perhaps, as I fall to the floor, moving my arms and legs to make angels in the grass. 

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