Deep in the wood. No one could find me here without looking for me. Who would look for me? Called Little One - wanted somewhere to go whilst strangers view my flat and remind me of what I’m doing, of where I’m trying to go, of how I set my own exile in motion and the damp now setting into frost as Spring is here. The air. Birdsong. Pollen, damp moss. It was a day like this almost a year ago that I walked with John through Queen’s Wood having just finally finished my job. Free. Now here I am, halfway between Highgate and Muswell Hill - a brief stop in the natural nowhere place from that road to nowhere I never want to walk down. I hardly ever come here. Time was you couldn’t tear me away from a natural space - Kensington Gardens, Hampstead Heath or St Andrews’ clifftops over the North Sea. London does that to you. London dulls the senses. Saw Owen Pallett at the The Forum last night and his songs are still dancing about my head - Patrick love affair all over again, false memories and recurring thoughts given flavour and a theme. Coincidence. Canada. Money. Money money money. Fear. My plans are thorough and tested, but they are plans for a condo of cards. I can’t finish anything - never have , but I know I can’t stay here. This pretty peaceful wood. Cigarette. Think will put journal upon the earth and dead leaves and watch it as I smoke.

1.54 pm

Everything always turns out for the best. Missed call from Little One so heading over to hers after I’m done breathing in Spring here. She has tea, coffee and Jamaican Ginger Cake. Very Saturday afternoon… As part of my unconscious ritual of the thirteenth card I seem to be revisiting old haunts. Saying goodbye? Moving on. The sun’s going in, but it isn’t cold yet. Coffee and Jamaican Ginger Cake - comfort - sleep. This is the dream of Win and Regine going round and round my head. Now if I can only find the path home, and what that is.