A Pilgrimage of Grace: England, a draft.
Monday. July the First and I am returning to number forty-two again, yet I cannot help feeling another walking, hiking, hitching and fleeing adventure is already calling out to me. Before there is even the subtlest whiff of our social decay, drifting through my complex questioning mind, I will glance away from the corrupted source of decadence to prevent my melancholy self. My home town - Wetherby - always keeps me fighting, struggling and reeling: it feeds a feeling of our unrelenting doom and I am frighten into a very real and personal hysteria. Once more, as I am reduced by Wetherby to an absolute literal pin-prick focal point of existence - a nothing, I find I must escape here before it gathers me into a heavily brassiered breast where I am hugged gagging for air and suffocated in the end! Other waves must deliver me freely upon another bountiful shore; where to next as this tide recedes July isn't an end but it may be the beginning of an end? Tuesday. This ...