Another morning, another hangover followed by fried food and cups of tea and books and writing and editing and the promise of a glimpse into another world that continually evades my grasp. Stood in the garden, I close my eyes and listen. I’m not sure what I hear, but it sounds fantastic, enough to make me feel alive, at least. Meditating with the sun on my face, soon after comes a cigarette which is followed by more writing and editing and searching and seeking until my eyes ache and my brain refuses to meet me half way. To freshen up and recharge comes a walk through trees in a landscape far removed from the hustle and bustle of the useless towns and cities that offer not much of anything at all. The distance between me and others is enough to make me hard, but don’t worry, nothing sordid happens. Not this time. There are feathers and leaves. There are blades of grass and memories and new futures that spark around my weary head like fireflies in search of the horizon. There are visions of childhood hallucinations and memories of energies that resulted in the becoming of who I now am. This man, this shape. This sum of a thousand parts from ten thousand days which now walks the thin line between what’s here and what isn’t. In the breeze that carries the smoke of my cigarette, there are ghosts and phantoms of lovers and dead relatives that appear to have been reborn in the bodies of ladybirds and grasshoppers. There are fantasies and collisions stemming from years of frustration at not being able to say what I always wanted to. We each have a truth, but it seems to be that we are raised to believe such truths are only worth speaking if they show us in a positive light, or if they help celebrate whatever tastes and styles are in fashion at any given time. Well, there’s nothing fashionable about me, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. So fuck you.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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