The bolt hole
To me it is a potting shed, somewhere that I might work in secret. A place where my pen can flow uninterrupted. It is a bolt hole from those individuals in society who call, just to be able to tell…
Drifting Sound
The night had arrived bringing a gradual cooling. Slowly a mist was forming. The world was closing around me. The lights of humanity dimmed, then disappeared. Sounds faded as if being sucked into a void. Horizontal bands of varying greys…