A rebel without a clue.

Life is good. Even filled with so much stuff it could happily explode. When you meet a man who's on the wrong bus heading out an hour to Wetherby for a Morrisons breakfast you have to settle him back on the path. At the Wellington, by Redhall he is deposited to seek to break his fast. Whether the Stonebake or back to the 24 Eurogarage he'll be catered for. He doesn't want to go to Wetherby. He's a train spotter and Wetherby has no tracks. In him I just saw me. Much more gentle and simple and joyous. Autism comes in many boxes. These are not Jackinaboxes.

It has to be done. I must go. I am going. To hop on a plane is plain wrong: it is too hasty. But it is a means. It's a pollutant. And it's security gone bonkers. Take off your belt, shoes and empty all emotion onto the slipway. Coming through nearly as creation made me. Not quite: the offence would cause the blue shirts to gag or shift restlessly. Point and stare at a thing of no significance. Arms stretched high. Upon this airport, landside/airside division, I am asked strictly to abase myself and add another crucifixion to their catalogue of fears.

A disease of matter Do we exist only as plague? To infest all quarters Bisecting into indistinguishable Where the difference is the same? Nothing becomes of anything wrought Less is definitely more.