One morning the Gas Man came to read the meter at the pub and the whole place was found total empty, a meal set upon the table, all doors and windows ajar and a note left writ in Gina’s best biro hand still jotted on the scrap paper next the telephone and the jar/blue plastic thing collecting coins for the poor kids and Cerebral Palsy. Note was part illegible but some could be discerned.

Cut from above. Let it go. Let fortune guide him. Her.

Do not try searching again. Sometimes things are buried for a reason.

Try saving again and again.

long fainting.

It was so strong that it brought back more.

When the cops eventually got involved there were just a few search parties thru G’s search histories and a handful of like good old Babes in Uniform making door to door enquiries in the neighborhood, running strict fingers thru G’s long abandoned keywords, bookmarks and overflow caches, then just shrug and slowly walk away.

There is a forest in Endland.

There was once a forest of Endland.

she got up as soon as it was day, and ran towards the sea.

BureauGrotesque

BureauGrotesque

a sad tale of scarton from endland (sic)

Circling long hours, beaten and/or exhausted by many of steep hills and sunshine and cobblestones and drinking at lunchtime that idiot and drunken tourist called Scarton from Endland (sic), got lost in a distant and pretty much made-up land called Lisboa. Eventually, when the Sun was starting to sink down he also despaired, chancing upon a probable mirage of a courtyard/garden wherein he sank to his knees and slept full deep upon the lowly ground (grass), all the time whilst several Peacocks wandered about him in the aimless direction of afternoon, as if those fabled creatures knew all too well that the actual story they were appearing in was still not yet properly started.