Humming the Song through a Feather in the Mists of Time. A Confounded Letter

Mountains belonging to the sea. This could be a concept to consider once I get up there panting and wheezing in the single malt air.

Near, down from here is a fiord and a whaling station, blood on the sea. A slip way and a chimney that flourished because of Lord Soap Man and no one seems ready to demolish.

Mountains above the sea, each reflected and sinking into deep sleep. The whiskey beach is shell skeleton white and the waves are the colour of that old car on the beach. A tennis court is green on the hillside with a mountain hare trapped inside decalcomanie fencing. A small island of rocket letters and natural asbestos.

Black Cock on little bonsai mountain leks attracting females; for the life of me I cannot think why they would be temptation impressed. Stag antler rutting and digging the mud, hanging like suicide from a bullish roaring rough chestnut neck. Mist and mellow nonsense red with fly agaric poison and other wonderful words that sting to the lips and deaden in the mouth.

Mountains expecting the sea. Scooping out blue and grey multiple, whales and Ariel, perspectives. Down to fields and trees of gold. Giving what they have in storms, to get it taken away anyway. A beach is a retired mountain wheezy whispering softly of its youth. Breeching and scrimshaw carving into doubt and spindrift on waves of heather.

The higher I go when depressions set in, the wetter I get. Now is that not something? Go higher to feel lower. My feet are wet in my old boots but I could care less. I'm still looking for old ghosts now on the knife edge and precipice. Go higher and bag all the top Monroes you can.

Pewter lake mirrors below and steaming mist rising from the streaming morning. A hags glen of peat that becomes difficult and then impossible causing a turn around of the subtle senses much like some fated women. Saying one thing to the world, or at least this small part of it, and meaning another. The three fated crone, woman, and virgin. Becoming which, you know not what? Fated three. Graceless.

I would like to go/give up but I cannot. If I remember all this with clarity then I can draw when I am rested. In black pen so make no mistake, I will make no mistakes.

The Ptarmigan are churring and winging low in fearful flight. You can hear the wind through eagle pinion. A strange hind, not native, barks at me in disgust. Whatever am I to do with you? she says, you come to these mountain islands and get as far away from the sea, upwards as you can. As if that made sense. I thought getting high meant some other things from the past. The Seal Silkie rises out to sea and you see.

The last of the Summerisle insects call from out the heather and the butterfly dies above allowing its powdered coloured power to settle gracefully upon your stretched out mind. Eerie eyrie's sit on clefts covered in painted white marks that advertise death before winter. A fire in the delicate distance disturbs the cause, because it is not alone and that is really how this works. The act of climbing a mountain is changed succinctly and dramatically by the act of observing the climb and making route root choices.

She left me and I left you and they are now all come together on this rather crowded emotional peak on a lie detector line. What shall we do if not hum the ending song said Sandy in my ears.