Hirnlego

Walking by the river he notices, not for the first time, how the air stills the moment the sun goes down, and though he does not recognize it he detects the scent of ozone from an electric strimmer a man is using to tidy a hedge. As he passes the smell is masked by the sweeter smell of cut privet. The river is slow and peaceful, swans paddle upstream and willows dip the tips of their fingers in the water. Trees, impatient for spring, rattle their bones in the wind

He thinks in quotations, Americans mostly, Hemingway, FDR, Vonnegut. Who was it who said 'if you want to be a writer, live, fall in love, hop a train, anything.' Has he lived enough to write, does he have anything to say worth putting to paper. He doubts it.

Slowly, and for the first time, he begins to accept that he will never not be alone, something has shifted within him in the last few years, moved to protect itself, put itself out of reach. The thought causes him no real distress, just sadness to bury other sadnesses, and to be, in its turn, buried.