Dreams of dereliction...
For some reason it's always late afternoon, possibly on a Saturday and certainly not in the UK; or if it was good old Blighty it would be a coastal location. There is no rhyme nor reason for this, but it would have to involve fairgrounds, the smell of beefburgers cooking, the waft of fried onions, the sound of diesel generators, the salty, weedy sea air and the sound of distant screams from the rides. If it's not the UK it's an American city, deserted and hot, Atlanta, San Antonio, Memphis, Nashville. Empty streets, darkened alleyways, an unnatural heat, a stifling summer, a sweet, scented air and I am there, somewhere, doing nothing, just existing, feeling the heat, down on my luck – or perhaps not – a long way from home both physically and metaphorically. Somehow, it feels as if I have taken a wrong turn – again – but exactly why or what is uncertain, unknown. We are in the aftermath of something – good or bad I don't know – and I am getting used to a new reality, one