Saturday, April 3, 2010


The cat, now awake sits protracted and sleepless by the door, the winds have woken him and he needs to roam outside to tell them off. But you can't let him out, mirror faced cloaked figures roam the culdesac and you just won't risk it.
And doors will shut all on their own, cats sitting frustrated and forlorn on the top of the sofa. And sometimes this will make you think of the Modernists and Mystics and whether all of this logic is worth the bother, and you'll stare though the lace curtains after hearing a growl outside and wait to see the face of the imagined. The wind outside can't affect you in the same way, -the stair case always shifts as you walk it, placing your finger tips on a pane of glass never feels the same way twice- . The wooden frames of your windows bang in the wind, sounding like a violent knock back, or is it just the breath of the trees which have always said 'wisha-wisha' in the wind that knocks at your window. Under the fluorescent glow of your energy saving lamp you will hug him, as you watch keys become knives become telephones and the window frame pounds like a drum.
And the air in the culdesac blows in all directions against fears you will never comprehend and taps at windows never given.

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