-
-
It was early morning and the sound of animals in the field above the bridleway, a bell like 1936 and moving West an ocean over. It was early, you’d been waking with a start a gasp of breath with the light since you’d got there, hours of sleep irrelevant and a wad of fear in your lungs, because that, at least, was new. The curtains open and the gaping window above the mattress so sheets were damp. Stone cold but saved sweating by the rising edge of the coastal season, and mostly, frankly, the lack of interest in it.
-
Having dropped here you were sticking it out, negotiating extra time to loiter under cover of the out of sight, the watchful eye of the unsuspecting. You were lying to them. Feet against the ledge and now thinking incessantly, what to do next. You’d been sure, at one point in the night, that you’d settled with "you LOVE driving”—”yes, sir”—but the scene this lingered in seemed weak now, underwhelmed by dried salt weight and dirt in the engine. You were taken though, by the image: riding out too far, just a little, thigh sore and a high from the fear. You were sure you had once, and closed your eyes to a squint a moment, looking past the glass of the window. Sure, you’d thrown the bundle over the back and put it to rest.
-
Then, from across the small room you heard the question, “Why are you here?”
-
-
You come to again, about an hour later; the sound of the wrong scene lilting above you. All this, a fixation on taking liberties with the truth. And it’s there a second, with your frozen feet: harvest me—
-
-
-
-
[“How tasteless to state it=text unavailable/And now, no longer playing the part on this side of the road that’s getting infamous, your engine still idling, you switch the key and a shadow of your car passes by”]
-
Having dropped here you were sticking it out, negotiating extra time to loiter under cover of the out of sight, the watchful eye of the unsuspecting. You were lying to them. Feet against the ledge and now thinking incessantly, what to do next. You’d been sure, at one point in the night, that you’d settled with "you LOVE driving”—”yes, sir”—but the scene this lingered in seemed weak now, underwhelmed by dried salt weight and dirt in the engine. You were taken though, by the image: riding out too far, just a little, thigh sore and a high from the fear. You were sure you had once, and closed your eyes to a squint a moment, looking past the glass of the window. Sure, you’d thrown the bundle over the back and put it to rest.
-
Then, from across the small room you heard the question, “Why are you here?”
-
-
You come to again, about an hour later; the sound of the wrong scene lilting above you. All this, a fixation on taking liberties with the truth. And it’s there a second, with your frozen feet: harvest me—
-
-
-
-
[“How tasteless to state it=text unavailable/