What I Do In Between the Words

The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut. I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally use linseed oil. I dust a porcelain lady twice a week. She does not need my attention, but I give it. My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case, otherwise it may turn into a a blank memory. At least once a fortnight. I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh; the sigh does not mean anything unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything. When the black dog returns, I drive out at night with no aim or destination. The 'dog' (my camouflaged depression), must be driven somewhere, and left on the side of a highway. These things I do are tramlines, a navigability that gets me back to a place where I can write with no bull attached - no one likes a fake sun. These inconsequential acts are rituals, observances that maintain the safe-side of my mind while words eat words in the dark.