Bloody minded and cruel, illness and mad laughter that has crazily crossed through the blue wood smoke air of this that will kill us. Desperate but depressed to be happy in the mornings. If I am not that person to others then at least I must feel free to free myself. The feel of the season evokes the extraordinary. The dripping pieces of yellow blood red from dead webs. The month blood of trees white and supped sap dry. Haw, Green, Bull, Gold, finches all, chase their own particular seed heads. Making the notion of a holy watchmaker less than a happy one. A life less extraordinary and under used would be nice they say. Not counting on if I disagree or not. In fact because I am here only for them, ignoring it all quite pleasantly. Teach, they say, work at my universal, you see, notion of employment. They conclude this precise commentary, with a certain elemental force. You will never do what I want you to do creating pieces on your own in your little sheltered harbour of unthinking happiness. Does this wood peg fit in this steel hole? Does this shiny new risk technology work for you? So then why create your own programme of states? Is it more natural? Why live in a Victorian age of brass piped steam and jeweled Science Fiction when this minimal reflecting body works so much cleaner?

In the morning depression drips like the musty misty pearls of dead water catching on the sleeping leaves. The dumb edges are rubbed smooth in the sinking matte mist season and the colours provoke smoky fires far in the distance. It is important to have their delusions of adequacy for now and relate only to what they have been shown, in the season, for this reason.

Dig, root, smell, loam and fungi, such are the names of the hours and the days. Work for others, think up, not down and be careful not allow thoughts the professionals would not like. Mention not your stories, for they are boring and not what we want. No, you cannot paint. Imagine if you are unsuccessful. Calling you by your first full tutonic name as in some pathetic, patronising game of cures. Understand underestimating. they say, charmingly, and why I am talking down to you. Whilst you must talk and work up some kind of accepted rhythm of the season.

No, of course, they say, there is no stigma attached to this season. It is only a lack of the colours you have in your paint box. We now understand what this lack means for us. So there is no need to feed your guilt gods in the morning when the leaves leave a tea stain of rainbows in the little black puddles saved from the rain And together the tyre tracks that go that away. With now a sun dog swaying in the sky. Must be luck.