When I was younger, and visited my cousins in the country, there was this one place along the road that always conjured the same image in my mind. It didn't matter what kind of mood I was in, or what weather it was, whether it was cloudy, or bright sun; bare and grey or green and flourishing. This feeling would come over me and that place shifted and grew dark and stormy and the sky started to rumble with lightning. And out there among the trees I saw two figures. One was laying on the ground, weak and pitiful; and the other was leaning over her, huge and omnious and with torn filthy clothes. There was something unworldly about him, and the vile and unruly storm somehow seamed to be the cause of his presence. Every time I passed this place this was what I saw, and that was something I always looked forward to. Because, somehow, it seamed so real. Like I was watching something that had, or someday would, actually happen. I don't know why I chose to write it down now, b
Incoherent musings, en människa emellan.