It would be wrong of me not to arrest the images of you, scantily clad, in the shortest of frilly skirts; you bring me close to you, I am unable to stop the thought processes; for miles and miles I am thus absorbed.
I even begin to wonder if I will ever be able to shake off these thoughts; what if they were always to stay with me, my eyes feel heavy, my head feels heady.
I am driving towards you, albeit, in my own version of the truth, I am driving for a quite different purpose; hours go by before I reach anywhere near your vicinity.
The sadness is scattered to the moorland, the hurt lies on the riverbed, the immense fear, for isn't it the greatest of fears, to be fearful of oneself, is inculcated into the baron landscape.
I walk the dark streets, too dark for my camera to develop the warm glow (to the naked eye) of the church clock.
As I pass the bus station I make up a story, about my B&B being just behind here, behind this very place, where three times every hour the buses will arrive.
To carry out their complicated, and seriously noisy, and intrinsically disturbing, reversing manoeuvres, before they accelerate, with loud aggression.
To depart, on their way to who knows where; the buses are empty now, and I expect that will also be the case, many hours later
