The track I followed this morning in a landscape that once was Eden but, since the gardeners were fired had gone to seed, was dry and exuded unrelieved ire. Leaves on bushes were rusty shaving blades, tried to cut me up and drink my blood; neglected olive trees tried to trip me up with sudden exposed roots wanting to absorb my body so they, full of revulsion, could live for hundred more years. Dead rabbits in the glade they had been stabbed by blades of grass sharp as a mafia assassin's stiletto; furred creatures shivered in their burrows. Hurt I made it to the main road where a nurse waited, sticking plaster, a soft bosom and the aroma of motherhood, she was my friend and lover, but, alas, only as virtual as friends in the Facebook are.
