And switch off this travelogue. It's getting tiresome now. From one pillock to another post. Every thing I see (including granite thrust up between bent trees in the slanting hill forest) is just one more snap vision landscape that has no room in my head.
I mean, for fuck's sake, I've seen baboons remonstrate, and clockwork spiders building spires (Nouveau not Deco). I've seen deserts carved from pumice, and small glitters of glass in dunes overhanging. I've seen vines strangle, and castles full of glowering vandals. I've see orange glows behind mechanically obsolete transport solutions - tanks pulling trains, and candles in epoxied lanterns.
And if that was not enough, I'm up a cold mountain, with the lemon-juice in the eye remembrance of lost companions.
I made two friends (from the base clay) and didn't have the wherewithal to keep them close enough to shelter in my narrator's embrace. They strayed out of my authorial radius, and then went away.
Sorry, mushrooms kicking in in the gorse. Lying down in prickling things looking up at pin-bright stars, thinking back, and having regrets.
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