She thinks of missing once he has gone home. Waiting for the Dream of Gerontius.

A skirting string of slipping tickling colour around her legs as she walks. Dreaming of innocence, captured by long halcyon days of still hoping. Wells of Summer colour erupting and subsiding in greedy green old field wave speaking, allowing for nothing but themselves in glory. Poppies in a hayfield blowing gyroscopes of erratic thoughts on a dog walk through the low sun fields of her home. Not his home, he lives elsewhere and probably, knowing him, else when.

It is mostly what can I do, thinking, she thinks. Can I hurt and in hurting others can I stop my own from damaging me, she contemplates slowly. Walking along straight bone backed ridges with blue vapour trails or through these stipple ridden fields, does nothing to help. Lying in old dusty orchards, along ancient bird whistling hedges or in hay barns ripe and shafted dust mote full, allows no memory rest. Guilty smelling hay ley lines of meaning exist, but she does not, in her anger, either admit to or even realise to recognise. There being nothing, fuming, funny or callous to look forward to or look back on. No illustrated books, no new birth of interest, no sleeping with anyone she shouldn't, no depressions to blame, no life in all that matters. To speak of sorry to, (and who wouldn't?) in this pensive passive past, would be admitting damned up defeat and that would never, ever, do. In her picture of this world, guilt is not allowed unless someone else can loving see it as a virtue.

Little things irritate, like they always do and larger things send her screaming for a room with the door always closed. Light hurts and tinnitus loud sounds reverberate like memories of misdemeanor's finally laid to rest above the morning sheets and forgetting.

His impossible poems and opera wailing have no place in her terribly safe, technical, report writing liability world. But that is for the best. Like lifting the skirt between her legs this thought gives her pleasant and unpleasant pleasures, but makes her glory angry at how it shows what it should not to those who must not be looking anyway.

This is the dream of those he is always talking about. And these dreams are just as much to, many to, always to loud for her sensitive feelings of compassion. Wish he would finally and forever shut up with his romance and leave her lying alone.