Fog

I pretend that I know where I’m going. That I’m in some way closer to the animal kernel at the root of my brain. Gut instinct: this way is good, that way is bad. I pretend that I can trust the theoretical compass hard-wired into my head.

In fact I am lost. The fog rolls around me. Familiar streets become underwater caves. Everything is alien, strange. The fog fills my ears, nose and mouth. I swallow it down. The fog fills my body.

A Man's Face

His facial hair, moustache and sideburns, gave him a stately air. Like a manor house or an expensive car. Like a Rolls Royce.