The Furrow

​The moon grimaced its jaundiced leer. He however, obscured by the outer wall of the rear of our house in my bedroom, turned my computer on. 

I’d read my electronic Foucault’s Pendulum and duly bookmarked my page. I knew the creases shouldn’t really show, as permanent as kindling marks and annotations puported themselves to. Of course my fingers needed a moment to come back to grip and steadily direct a stream of pure thought but of course they were never really dead; asleep, enlisted informers so they remain, even as they lay down their lives to some yet to be realised cause. For sure it is an agent who will make it through thicket and gate to an understanding of a sort. Fed on brushes and nibs during times of ascetic tradition and glutting itself of button and backspace in public, swyping often appears to be some slippery slope tilted by technology to trip me up and hasten my descent  but I know better than to trust anchors without proper purchase in my neural network or hippocampus.

For sure, we have set up a lovely encampment here, but it is as she wished. Perhaps maintaining a mistress like her demands it, our position, entrenched as it is requiring neither the blind faith of the no moon nor the magical appreciation of the fuller moon, like the iced cake from my lucid dream.

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