: About Me

Fugue (The Forest) Mired in cold comfort in my car, a coat for blanket, a headrest my pillow. Hidden in the watching wood in the roaring dark of winter. Betrayed by the track that led to clinging ooze. The radio murmurs at midnight of African politics, of sporting triumph and economic malaise. I listen intently and immediately forget what I have heard. I am here to forget, just as the trees that bend and sway and hiss their contempt as they crowd over me to listen to the low words do not deign to remember, not needing memory. To have no need of memory would bring freedom from my greatest e...