There upon the sill a figure draped in ice wet white. At least it could be, underneath that flowing form, as much an object as the ghost of wind in a flag. The sheet walked over to the steps of Bugs Bunny Wagner epic you may have seen, where Yosemite Sam has little redbeardy nike tick helmet wings like a Viking Achilles. It knelt to its feet hid in CO2 hover, and perhaps tightened sneaker lace or adjusted sandal strap. Bugsy's flaxen plaits raised cooes and swoons
the whole ballpark over. Bullfights began. A saucer rose over the baseball diamond. Scooby and Shaggy hid in a hotdog stand and served the monster. The creature swept away briefly in confusedness in a spinning tie-fighter knitting spree. The bullhead horns fumed and steamed in wrathful anger. "Curses pesky adolescence; foiled again; next time." I drew my own shadow on the steps in the amphitheatre corridor. I drew my own self too. Somewhere she gazed through a birdbath screen. The coated one sterned: looked real stern. Flaxen locks fall to the floor and all is duck-eye still and tense. The gold twine falls from the tower into briars, at first with gravity, then as a comet tail left to spiral over the crater: a party-popper explosion not big enough to hurt enough to help. A scrapbrain-night black of space void stretched over both end of the platform and enveloped the drama into a wingless hovering universe of a stage. Marble-pink stone-ochre steps went on up for a five-minute forever to Valkyrie soprano knell. If you have seen it you may agree with me about all this here. We sat, all however many of us, the readers; the watchers; you, you, you, you and me, on an empty stage of seating. In a timeless region of audience noise after-hum we sat. The Floyd played, hanging around waiting as much as us, pink against black, 1972 Pompey; any year; all lit up by our own electric lights. As much we were an event as a fire in an oil drum in a lay-by. On the stage big things continued to happen. The sorceress hardly blinked, but hardly seemed to take in a thing, as the Neo-Tokyo olympic stadium went hush-quiet under a vertical column of geo-orbit laser room.
"Are you going to walk into those moor rushes?" I looked over the fiery heathside. It was night. If only the bloatedness would go, I thought. I remember when we first were introduced, the sauceress and I. Her bity hard self-defensive highest strung of all spewy souls.
She would have eating disorder if not for her natural metabolism. I can't see these words.
"Pierce me or let me go," I yelled. "What are you doing for me? ... What are you doing to me?"
It was as good as secret society. They sat us down together and left; her with her friend, me with mine. Once I was an ordinary bear. Is that true? I'm writing this in the dark. The A4 and biro are from my back jean pocket as I race over the midnight desert fell. The darkness keeps off travel sickness at least, like Perseus's shield. But only just. I awoke this morning with Southampton Dock in my head. It must be a trying time for any musician playing to that - when you start naming politicians by name in songs you can't really be the cool offish abstract universal sublime Times crossword compiler you may have been before anymore. Even Vera Lynn makes it tricky perhaps slightly. A long heyday it was though. Mountainous even after. In fact they recognized the sublime of their steersman's earlier course and followed him without him; followed his abandoned quest. Their overgone captainous one they followed more than he. Leaving him hitchiking from Wales to California, then to tour Berlin in big stadium date. The Sorceress could see that I knew my Floyd, and that I knew Terminal Frost was Floyd. Even Gilmour else Mason badmouthed Lapse of Reason, but it is a good Floyd album. Not original very, but after the gypsy peak, the next two were struggling not to overlap however good the first at least. I wish they'd done the household object album. That would have been a music album, not more death and war. Or else a shame they didn't get loved-up. I must re-examine the Pubius enigma. If you want I'll devote a chapter to it soon. Expect copies of British Gas adverts to be Bostoned.