I wander (rather aimlessly) through Palatine dusk, and attempt to recall my middle name. There's probably a moral to all this somewhere. Meandering down a bosky avenue of fractal literary paradigms, a passing gerund tells me, allusively, that "A philosopher being a lover of truth, a man who discovers that there is no truth is no philosopher. Discuss, for a maximum of 25 marks". I pointedly ignore it, and use the aforesaid point to pare my nails, which have become rather assertive recently. Seizing a particularly buouyant clipping, I glide effortlessly through the leaf--mould of history, propelled by one hundered and theree dwarfish pseuds, each with the face of Leon Trotsky. Of course, you only have my word for this, as they're completely invisible.
Before this place grey town woulden be'd.
Is the use of obfuscatorty manguage an atavistic attempt at dereification here, or is it all in truth a pack of lies?
The position of a notional comma in the previous sentence will enable you to know what I mean.
I'm in a loose scrubland at the moment, and my boots are brand new from Wainwrights. It's all red, unless perhaps it isn't.
Before this, there was a grey town, I ponder, before being interrupted by what appears to be a small child's concept of Margaret Thatcher, circa 1987, which is a sort of sphinxy thing with garlic-crushers for arms. In my opinion, it's marginally less alarming than the original. As if from a great distance, I hear the hollow sound of Joh Bunyan rotating rapidly in his grave. I quizzically render the beast harmless with a well-aimed teabag, climb into a waiting non-sequiteur, gun the engine with a razon smile, and by the time you've realised this sentence is far too long, you've missed the bus. Don't dismiss this as fiction, for worse, 'creative writing' (I shudder as I utter the dread words) - and I am talking to you.
If I know you're readingthis, then I seem to know a future event. Which, excluding supreme egotism and phallic arrogance (Doctor Freud to the waiting room, please) means that time dsoetn ndee to be lienra.
However, if you didn't get the point of all that, then the Galactic censor or whatever (I pause to dodge a falling cliché) has got to me.
I decide to write this all down on a rock, which is conveniently flat and sheltered, but can't find my pen, that is to say my bottle-green Lamy. I have other pens, but know only too well the perils of writing in cheap biro.
I sigh, and walk on, pausing only to trip up a bespectacled, robed plagiarism wearing little round glasses. As it falls into an unexpected pit, I permit myself a coherent sentence.
"Before this, there was a grey town, and I have no memory of the transition," I say, knowing the answer all along, but not telling for the sake of form. On the horizon I spy with my adjectiveeye what is almost certainly an eyebrow. Which is a trifle odd.
Then, I find myself in bedand everything's measurable again, most disconcertingly, although not as disconcertingly as the fact that my haircut appears to be rather different than I had imagined it. Jarringly, I recall that to end a pice with the revelation that all preceding was a dream is the ultimate narrative faux-pas, and so quickly formulate some dross about a long and self-improving interior quest before flitting, Puck-like, away, clutching an item of ladies' underclothing.
Out the window, there is a grey town.