horsemouth's parents moved here in about 1980 so horsemouth has been seeing this fellow since then.
a saint catherine (the clue is in the wheel)
he is gradually fading out of existence (as are we all).
in the meantime he rests on his shovel (having buried more of the dead).
horsemouth was up at his usual time to open up the abbey.
horsemouth can see shapes and faces in the wall behind her (can you?).
hope (again)
horsemouth is sick of fucking hope.
he hates the smell of hope in the morning. it smells like defeat.
he's sick of dreamy sound that comes into people's voices when they imagine that things can get better.
does horsemouth think there will be diesel shortages? he thinks it is a distinct possibility.
he makes a good speech (he promises loads of stuff for 2030 when you'll have to elect them again to get it). nonetheless it is an improvement. it is a politics done competently. one that at least addresses the major issues even if there is 'no money' to actually deal with them.
let us see the budget anyway.
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last night it rained. this morning a bright sunny morning. horsemouth was surprised to find something he'd written (typed in) the day before. he'd forgotten to lock up the garage (or it had blown open) and the black cat was in there.
rob sent him some of the new stuff he is working on (and very good it is too). horsemouth sent rob a version of the lyrics to les corbeaux by gribouille (now renamed gravedigger's lament or some such).
today the bins, the eggs, the chickens, the abbey.
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