(photograph © Rachel Louise Silverlight)
In the country, the country was to me, a series of images. You come here to not be you. You come for the silence of the world; all the silence of blustering humanity and your own dreadful ego. You come here just to watch.
Abed in the night-time I heard or thought I heard a strange noise. It was creaking, a moaning, like hinges or the rusty limbs of trees moving against each other. It might have come from anywhere; it came from outside the window, I thought.
Sometimes in bed I hear the jingling of a bell in the darkness beyond and then my heart freezes a little. I do not want to hear his paws scraping against the glass, making it shake.