21.03.08

Crazy time of night, the wolves are circling, vultures line Lauder rd, they know I haven't left, they see the 4x4 sitting there, and they rock patiently on the cars of visitors who were caught with illicit substances so left in another vehicle, wolves scratch absent minded in the dust of the perimeter, vultures spread their wings, keeping the green blood pumping through them, ready for flight or fight.

I can see them through the bars of this Victorian Prison, holding onto the cold metal, bars with a smell of ages, of corrosion that has needed 140 years to make it, I appreciate the smell, makes me think that perhaps there is something tangible in life, a thing that has watched the ages and seen many cross its path, it has felt many die and forever remain within and now the bars absorb my heat and wait to see what move I make.

The prison has seen all manner of wolves and vultures over the years, some change shape, some smile but a monster is a monster is a monster and what ever guise they form you know the monster.

I've let go of the bars now, no point in watching them, the Witching Hour is here, time to wander out into the fading light, see what happens, guess it doesn't really matter, there are always monsters, always corroded bars, someone griping them and peering out, whatever happens no story will be told, the blood will settle into the dust, more players will fill the roles and the prison will continue to observe.



The Grey Madness