One year of moaning sirens,
yellow staccato 'appeal for witnesses' signs,
four tragic events - one shoot out, two accidents and one serious assault - all under the narrow shell of my window
and then suddenly a long journey to stansted.
a tube, a train, a flight, a bus, a train, a bus. a climb. a walk.
dinner, night-time.
then the morning and a galaxy away from london's understated bells of doom. an art academy scrunched prettily in between the woods and a castle. a tiny city gleaming white and red from in between the castle's arches. artists, designers, writers, someone's parents. all you can hear is the wind in the trees, somebody's loud conversation.
i am trying to imagine what visiting fellows do, what aspiring writers do, what artists do, when under a blue cloud-sodden sky in the middle of nowhere, but my imagination fails me. ideas are snaking around in my mind though and stories are waiting to be written, so maybe i will go now, and write them before they dissipate.
