Perhaps I have lived too long in my own prehistoric world. Which stays within the reaches of my own sanity. I still refuse to go near newspapers that only reveal to me the treachery of reality. They only stain my hands with the grey-black woes of the world. My life is plain and I'm buried under the sands of my own imaginary realm. Perhaps in that respect I lose. And fail to fly as far as other fledglings of my age. Because I know only of my own sheltered little world. Where mushrooms are sand and strawberry-coloured. And my imgainary friend in his brilliant red Fox suit reads books to me while I sip a cup of English breakfast tea. With extra milk and sugar. By the fire.



A 2-story high bookshelf with books I will never read.