Thursday, May the 17th, 2007
back to: title, date or indexes
What land is on my map? A country I call Hoon, a land of clatter and banging, of hideous shrubs and rivers. My eyes reject its colours—it's grey and blue in blotches. I keep a vinegar-stained map rolled up in my little suitcase. Proud, majestic, grand, I leapfrog in the darkness. My torch shines on my map, a map made by an idiot. One day I'll lose my thread. I'll stumble in the bracken, catch fire, blaze, then smoulder. That land was just a rumour.