The way sometimes you'd walk across a field and a sense of elation would come over you. Are you with me? Okay . . . You're half risen from the skin. The feet are not touching the stones. The little heart is about to hop out of your chest from sheer fucken joy. And the strange thing about it? Go on. That patch of happiness could be floating around the field for the last ten years. Or for the last three hundred and fifty years. Out of love that was had there or a child that was playing or an old friend that was found again after a long time lost. Whatever it was, it caused a great happy feeling and it was left there in the field. You're after walking into it. And for half a minute you're lifted and soaring but then you're out the far side again and back into your own poor stride and woes.

Weird & Wonderful Wednesday

And the way that we carry ourselves is dictated primarily, I believe, by the secret airs and reverberations of our places.

And the sea is out there and moving. He hears it drag on its cables - a slow, rusted swooning.

They are moving fast and west. Mountains climb the night sky. The cold stars travel. They are getting higher. The air changes all the while. By a scatter of woods there is a medieval scent. By a deserted house on a sudden turn there is an occult air. How to explain these fucking things? They come at last by the black gleaming sea and this place is so haunted or at least it is for me and there is a sadness too, close in, like a damp and second skin.

“The shapes of night in the park