Cotton wool monsters (live in the bathroom). Miles away. Another land. Another shaft of imaginary soil. Another diversion. Another time. The conglomeration of twentieth century living. A castle with two turrets rises from the ground and into it steps a new being. Made up in dark costume - the shape of a golf club his puny eyes stare into the world. Outwards. His vision brisk and clean. Clouded (only by the horizon he creates). He looks on. His hand of secrets are lumps of cotton wool.
Each painted different colours. They run up his arms like rats down a jumper and skin his spine. They all have names but enforces of this strange, yet important skeletal figure.
His beady eyes are distant and the mist swirls around his castle. Things hum in the ark foamy misty. A place beyond death as a place beyond life: this was a place beyond both.
The arms outstretch. They are thin as lines and it�s only the black one that gives them definition. The helpers scurry, swarming over the dry bones that lay at the throat of the cavelike castle entrance. Lightening forks over the sky and the man clears the threat. A bellow of thunder comes from a distant part of the world. Many years away, it seems, yet it has the power to strike at any time. The cape flaps like a sail. Ferociously in the wind. He remains rooted to the slabby ground outside. The helpers scurry, panicked from the tower and fling themselves towards the floor.
The gale hightens. A section of battlement cracks and falls in a lethal puddle of mortar two feet from the spectator. He doesn�t flinch. The towers break away, structural flaws unpeel the fabric of solid stone to the resentful slush. He looks to the sky and screams and the wind increases its reign of terror.
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