A rebel without a clue.

I thought I was following a figure in white or a white deer. It is the horizon I am following. Maybe it is Apollo or Hermes I seek? Or there is something of myself in this elusive figure. It never gets closer; always beyond my grasp. And I can never catch the figure because the being is me. Let it disappear this desperate following. There are no copper coloured slugs this morning. Yesterday, while leaping over purposely fallen trees and branches, I hesitated to step on one. The sun's rays reach through the ribbon of flittering oaks, delineating The Way from the pine forest and pink heather grows in the gaps. Finally birds begin their chorus - it was silent except for the distant rumble of Autoroute de Gascogne. But it is still without a breeze and the fern radiates back the sun from amongst the pines.

Today is forecast hot. 31°C. It's clear too. A full complement of stars are out while I head for petit déjeuner and coffee. Usual approach. Tried not to wake French guys, but I dragged a chair and burst a paper bag over the fretful gentleman. This establishment is just a bar. The Tabac is across the street. No TV or Lotto or PMU. He got very worried when he realised there were not enough beds for him, wife and mother-in-law ... That's some triplet. There is a TV ... He just forgot to switch it on. Now this is the car I dream of driving. Although last night I dreamt of Whitby and Hull. It's usually dark, dank and rotten in the dreams I contend of those places. And Hull was hell like, except for some excellent converted factory/bar. But, again, I was wearing zero - nothing on to hide my modesty and I was so was very nervous - especially with Glenn driving. Two large coffees. Bloody 24hr none news. It's all planned. What is news? Is it really necessary to a peaceful day? I...