Misty mornings abound, in the bottom of France. We wonder - how did they get here? What do they signify? Why is the air visible? 

The glowing orb glows orbulently, casting its wan light hither, thither, pithier than before. It shines; we bow. Who is controlling us? The wheelbarrow shakes with anticip-

Just look at the monochromatic gradients here. Are they not the product of some divine spectre? They engulf all possibility of probability, deny perspective! 3D imaging processes serve no one here, for we are all flat. That is discovery Number One. We live in a flatland. I recommend Flatland (1884, E. Abbott Abbott), a hearty romance in more dimensions than one. 

Strange warnings appear in early mornings. These strange, colourful plants play tricks on the untrained eye. Indeed, my eye... They are abrupt, purple things with interconnecting filaments - filaments which belie their apparent harmlessness. I do not trust them as far as I could throw Mein Kampf, or Mike Godwin.

What gaunt godlessness haunts this land? The prickly lilacs are multiplying. I dream of them nightly. I dreamt that they abandoned existence altogether, and sent their brazen tentacles into imaginary space-time, dumbfounding anyone in their way. I woke up nonplussed, glazed in a sheen of sweat. I put on my long-johns and ventured out. This, my dwelling. Inhabited by rogues of a most sinister nature.

My dream had come true. They had spiralled, spreading their indefatigable seeds over this godforsaken field. What are these hideous networks? What purpose do they serve?

Presumably they have been placed here as beacons, in order to communicate ciphers and messages to a third, astral party. Their intricacies will not confound me. If I've a mote of tact, I'll catch them unawares in ways they couldn't imagine, even with all their webbed intelligence. Still, concentricity pervades my consciousness. I read in circles, the same page over and over, over and over. I am unable to leave it behind, its words operate my thoughts. Is this their way in, or is my mind just playing tricks on me?

The mist falls like clockwork. Through the folds of ominous cloud I am unable to communicate with the outside world. Hence, I am trapped. The roads are destroyed, I know not how. Will they never let me leave? I am burning pyres in Morse code, over a very long period of time. I am still on H. What's it all about? may take weeks.

A most beguiling revelation. My own brother (or what appeared to be he) came stumbling out of the fog, weary-eyed, weather-beaten and severely hyphenated. His words came out in splutters and coughs. I fed him a yogurt but he choked on its vanilla whiteness. I offered kefir, but he wretched at the idea. We spoke in stop-start sentences. Where had he travelled from? I had not seen him in weeks - what had he been eating, if not yogurt and/or kefir?

After some mild interrogations, I dropped my jocular facade, and punched him up the gullet (desperation is as desperation does). Here, I was faced with an inconvenient truth the likes of which Al Gore would probably cite in an interview ten years down the line as being even more inconvenient than his. This, my brother -- not real. A hallucination, or hologram. How could this happen? Have they tapped into my psyche? Perhaps my dreams were their access point. They have acted upon my mind's eye, using it as a psychological weapon against me. My guard down, my mouth may slip. I might divulge informations and aid them in their galactic conquest? But what secrets do they hope to gain from me?

During a storm, birds will fly and caw, cats will whine and shiver, rhinos may guffaw, and dogs will surely bark. Now, however, the dogs merely cower, frightened into submission by some unknown threat. Occasionally a snarl permeates the fog and reaches me from across the valley. There are forces at work, and the animals know it.

This, in the valley. A look-out tower? Not by human hand. What are they building in there? What are they looking for? Why, for the love of dogs, is it raised off the ground?

Thankfully, my own hound does not shy away from a conundrum, or potential invasion. He is on the prowl, ears cocked, yearning for adventure. On our walks, he sniffs the ground interminably, for signs of alien life. Anything yet? Don't hold your breath, Boulou. Dogs can't do that.

This, in the sky. Indulge me - is this a spherical machine of astral warfare? Should I ring Mark, Carrie and Harry? Would they offer heroic aid, or skip haughtily away, tails between legs? If science fiction has taught me anything, it's that what appears to be an honest moon is often not exactly that. In minutes, this moon might call upon a Jupiter-sized moon, designed for one thing and one thing only. My legs stand on end just thinking about it.

I took the dog out to check the progress of the prickly purple invasion. It seems their conduits have served their purpose. Now, they stand limp and spent. Their ardour is done. Boulou's is just beginning.

He continually attempts to study and observe the prickles. He seeks knowledge. How do they function? What is their source of power? Are they telekinetic? He is a scientific dog. The residual electricity contained within the purploid pricks renders them impossible to remove from the ground, without severe discomfort. Boulou is a comfortable dog. He he is, subduing the sting in the only way he knows how. Next, comes the 33rd attempt at harvest.

Notice the white sheen dousing the entire field. Foliage grows no more. The forces are at work. How will we eat? We're running out of yogurt, and Boulou refuses to eat anything else. He is just a dog, but he is ruling the roost. He wears my boots in the house, and shits where I sleep.

Conflicts aside, we recognise that a conflict of interests serves neither of our interests. His cocked ears continue to scour the land for evidence, clues, leads and other scientific what-nots. He knows all the detective agency jargon. I just pretend, and woof alongside.

What a heroic silhouette, you may exclaim. And you wouldn't be far off the mark.

He thought he found evidence. He didn't find evidence. What a world...
We're on a road to nowhere.
Come on inside.
Takin' that ride to nowhere.
We'll take that ride.

Today Boulou looked at me with those eyes which mean only one things. What things? Bad news. The baddies are up to some trickery again. This time, in the form of a wondrous thing. How discombobulating, Boulou. How discombobulating...

I have not developed a holographic immunity. My eyes do not see through lies. I frequently fall foul, especially to a smile this big. How can one not? My rational mind is failing. I am revealing secrets, though I know not which, left right and centre. Surrender seems a seductive option. Where am I headed?

Even Boulou, despite his sceptical nose, is won over by this one. Here, I captured a beam of tomfoolery. In this beautiful yet tragic portrait, the hound's mind is being warped by a shining warp-field. We are convinced, and it makes our feet shake and tremble with doggish tinglies. To have a blanket to fall back on - what else can there be? We are so weak now, there is no other road.

Our guard is down, and smiles abound. We are revelling in the future. The skies are lifting. Why though? Is it in preparation for something, like an event or something? Oh wow. We're praying to the azure, the sun cutting through the leaves, and our hair. What will happen next? All eyes trained on the giant unknown above.

Unbelievable. They have sent a plenipotentiary, in physical form. We await further signal, bowed to the ground. Oddly familiar. Memory fails me. I am stumped, clueless - my heels are cracking.

Miracles. They work miracles. Their scaly consul has furnished us with a micro-walled soily area. For now, garden would be an overstatement. However, it is a thing. Seeing as it took one small green being but a flash to achieve, we are pretty bloody amazed. What next? And just as important, does Boulou approve? He is my compass in these matters. His furry eyeballs can easily tell up from down.

He jolly well does. What? A transformation. Never have I been swept from such blankety fear to blissful wonder so instantaneously. Our noses point south, to the sun - to the future.

Their latest hologram continues to evolve, gaining human intelligence by the day. The body, lately emitting the odour humans associate with the armpits. Look now, at this.

We are in harmony, at peace. The vineyards are real. Reality is a vine.

An odyssey has taken place, in an active tense. Looking back on days of yore, I see a murky past, distant and hollow. Without structure. My eyes hurt. I see forward. I see light. We skip into a brighter world. One third human, one third dog. The other third of the other. The ever-far, ever-near. My pyres are all burned out and I fear nothing. Slide to the left. Slide to the right. Criss-cross, criss-cross - cha-cha now y'all.

-ation.

Underwater Love Pt. 1

This must be underwater love, the way I feel.

I've watched every Salad Fingers documentary and now whenever I think about dark green leafy vegetables I feel nauseous. Kev says it's started to affect my pigmentation. Kev's full of whack. Don't listen to him.

Last night, at the crack of dusk, Kev and I erected a totem pole, crafted by Kev's deft hand from Polish walnut wood, as a tribute to all who lost their lives in the Battle of Loob, 800 years ago. Statistically speaking, more people haven't heard of it than have. We scented it with musk.

For weeks now I've been building a pyre – alone – for a very special purpose. I source the wood from my grandma's old copse. The bluebells are deliciously delicate. Their floppy little bells hang this way and that, turgid with dreamy expectation. I try not to tread on them but collateral damage is inevitable. Besides, they're only a bunch of dangly stupid fucks anyway.

Salad Fingers wowed me today. Unsurprisingly, my legs have no skin left on them. No one told me during my single-digit years about the dangers of chafing. At school chafing was like electric. It was wilder than Digimon or skanking. Reminiscence colours all reflection.

À 8 heures this morning I bit the k-cuffing bullet and burnt all my tight underwear. Suzie has been waxing lyrical about the physiological advantages of Loosey Gooseys for getting on for two weeks now. I'd quite had enough, so I did the aforementioned, and great Caesar's ghost I'm not looking back. Not now, not in a million years.

At my late grandfather's behest, I polished off the stroganoff. What a sentence, but he only served seven years.

“Let's talk about sexuality”, Kev urged me yesterday evening, as we nursed each other's banana-date milkshakes. We had just stood up after tumbling down the gorsey field, and were both prickled like nobody's business. I replied gruffly; not because I didn't want to talk about it at all, just because I didn't feel like talking about it right then and there, with prickles dotting my back like so many dots of luscious black vanilla in a home-made ice cream brew, but in a negative way. He took my reticence the wrong way, and heaved a giant sigh, as if to say, “I know you are, but what am I?” I don't respond well to amateur dramatics. As if to prove that point, I picked up the first igneous rock I could lay my eyes on and hurled it at him with all that shot-put coaching I'd vicariously undergone by watching videos on the internet in the wee watershed hours, after my midnight masturbations. Private evenings are the best. The boulder struck him bluntly on the side of the head, and knocked him squarely for six. Not the last time he'll be sorry for saying some shit like that to me, I'll bet. What's sexuality, anyway, besides believing that something should usually go one way, and finding that four or five times out of some, it does?  

The Uniformity of Haricot Beans - nothing to do with this

He undid his waistcoat. He took off his shoes and knee-length socks. He was a peculiar fellow. Full to the brim with idiosyncrasies, refreshing to all those who knew him. He unbuttoned his floral shirt and allowed the cooling breeze to breathe coolly over his supple chest. His abdominal hairs thanked him for it. Chiming in, his homeostatic glands heaved a sigh of immense relief. Right on, he thought. Time to get going.

The lawnmower thrummed along in the way a metaphor might if it had been whimsically thrown together by some poet-turned-prose-writer in order to cheaply embellish a benign sequence of events. Thrum thrum thrum. Imagine me reading this to you, in a husky, emotionless voice, devoid of regional accent but plodding along with heavy diction and unwaveringly dull intonation. Just like that. Plod plod plod. Trisyllabic sentences thrill me. Just like lawnmowing / mowing the lawn.

Atop his thistle-guzzling, blandly alliterative throne, the man felt like a god. He listened to its various churns and kthumps with blind glee. The noises gave him an enormous sense of wellbeing, which welled up inside him, thence effusing from his throat in spits, gargles and other gross onomatopoeias.

Across the way, the man's neighbour, Kevin McCloud, was mowing his lawn. How serendipitous, thought the man. What a charming coincidence that Kevin and I – two men, two gung-ho, strapping men, riding on a wave of exuberant gusto – should be mowing our adjacent lawns simultaneously. I'll wave, and he'll wave back, and we'll each of us erupt into a momentary ecstasy. We'll break the mould and whack a big two fingers up to the conservative establishment for instilling within us a sense of guardedness and perpetual reservation. We'll shake off the doleful glare of infinite negation cast onto us by the paranoid and paranoia-inducing shells of former humans, once shimmering with individual phosphorescence, now damned to monochromatic insularity and choking restricti-- oh blast I've mown right into the hedge.