I didn't sleep for 3 nights on the trot at the dog-end of may. Sunday afternoon was gorgeous and sultry. We sat in the yard, my daughter and I, pasting shreds of the weekend paper into our sketchbooks. Found a drawer full of old car spray-paints and an alphabet stencil from nursery school, expounded on the joy of layering - the thrill of the serendipitous encounter of disparate elements. (She wasn't much interested in theory).
During those thin, febrile pseudo-sleeps I've been having of late, I find myself pursued by masked characters. I discover severed heads and body-parts in the sod - panic - attempt to alert the 'authorities', and then find myself mocked by a snickering crowd and a tribe of blandly smirking manikins.
I'm trying to live a regular life - follow the rules and conventions. But these little fuckers are marching through my brain by night and tapping on the panes by day.
I'd just like to know why.
What do they want?