A rebel without a clue.

From the right hand side a greyed out man woman became my voice; a rainbow stripped momento of Oxford Dons. Stating something I was subconsciously thinking. Someone struggling against anonymity in hell sent Harrogate and sixty years feeling a need not to be the drifting within an inert body. Having the same deathly battle on their hands: mother and father destroyed another young and afraid face. Glenn and I assailed Harrogate on a very cold, winter and damp May day. I was reminded of a July Saturday in London where the temperature plunged to seven and Scarlett and I were battered beyond our meagre senses; I rolled into a copious puddle and sprained my right ankle. The same ankle I went over drunkenly on in Newcastle upon Tyne back on 1993. Another year where realistic and positive weather eludes the English. Anguish of bleak clouds rolling heavily drawning dreading o'er our fragile pates. In the end it was a quiet day and eventually a deep blue shone down on the Stray and upon our ...

This morning I know the world is mad. I'm sat in McDonald's consuming a burger and a big mac. My first meal today. Waiting for Glenn to join me in Harrogate and battle against the maddening crowd of undone souls. Even the children of this world are mad. They are blank of realising. Something corrupt is present. Witless like the trembling mad. What vanishes into nothing within their something creates anything but truth. This indoctrination of sounds, sights and smells isn't what it appears to be. It is all false. My choice brought me to eat here, but maybe it wasn't a conscious choice. Between the Station and here I saw nothing real. The cenitaph consoles us who are terrified by the cacophony of galavanting mad. The stones permit this hell infernal and doors stand back while plastic bags proclaim a want of empty symbols and misheard drums. Why did this happen and how was I also caught by it for many many years. The cycles and patterns are a web that splays us formulated ...

As I look across the valley I can see the wind ruffling my hair. Swinging in the March breeze, hung from the neck, I see a body limp and raggedy, urine stained and empty of life. Around the circling swaying body stand a number of heavily wrapped individuals. Covered up against the unseasonally cold weather with only their eyes peering out towards the dead deed lingering on the hastily constructed gallows. From a twisted contrived bending crumpled ancient hawthorn the body swings pendulous; marking the passing of life and the gathering of the dusk. They start to drift away, leaving the empty shell as a warning for any others who pass this way of the punishments and summary justices preserving their society; but I am now free. Singular and discorporated. My body no longer the chain binding me to the corrupt and insidiously moralising society that only spoke to me through broken teeth with blackened bile dribbling from the whimsical, half smirking, sinister lips.