Faith.

Your skin fell off in the middle of the night. Like overly worn out pyjamas they just fell off. You had no flimsy thin skin of deceit to cover you up anymore. I could have helped but I left you there naked with no defence. Your thoughts burst forward so often in your head that you could no longer digest them anymore. All your ideas would roll back upon each other and your dreams would somehow not discard them.

I tried to make my own landscape for you in time. Mark out a geographical space where we could sleep; a peaceful cubbyhole away from the staring eyes of reality. In a house of wood or a house of brick or a house of straw or the remotest wood your emotions made your skin feel like an old coat. I cut out snippets of seconds and minutes and hours and cellotaped them together and we made a tapestry of time together that involved picnics and piss-ups and hangovers and marriages and upsets and fall outs. The more reality cast down sunshine and snow the more you became aware there was no hiding place. I couldn't’t provide it. We are in the second century of our love now. Faith for old dead men is starting to wear thin. Who are you going to replace it with now; Old dead Women, People and things and ideas that have nothing to do but get you through? Are you going to by accident one day crawl into your old forest of delusions and find a reality of freedom with its worms or crawl backwards looking for picturesque dictators who will kill you?

.