It always starts with weather inconceivable for the country and the time of year. Wales in summer. Humidity, rain and heat. The mind cannot fall into a resting place in such circumstances. The body is lazy. There has been a moth trapped in the house for two days. It sits on a stair. It flattened against a wall before. It does not move often.

Not everyone lives their life out on facebook, a play to their own projection. I am strawberries that wish to be oranges. What am I to write about? I just spent a day on YouTube and occasions spent sucking in the rainy air by planting my face out the window. Picking through notebooks there are unfinished letters and words I wrote which now I despise. Mists, missing shadows and a man with a striped nose fill my mind. But there is no plot or characters. Just myself and a room and finally at 23:42 the first cool air in the last of the day.

Don't tell me that I need to grab my readers attention in the first chapter, stanza, even word. Attention by its definition is fickle. I'm not to grab them by the balls and wrestle them until their throats thicken. The words retrieve their own meaning. A polka dot perceived as a square.

I am a badly placed pronoun and an adjective too many.There are no chapters in my life. I am passing by in an utilitarian block form poem. Punctuation is a beautiful law made not to punish. It is a juxtaposition of its own making, constricting the prose to extol its meaning. It was festered through cohesion, of which, communication is always the output. But I would write without it in long out of breath sentences if I were allowed to.

So I am a badly placed pronoun and an adjective to many. I am words in a breeze, rain at a funeral, thunder in a murder mystery and an abstract salad bowl of despair. I realise the warnings of Richard Dawkins that time is long and I am short of it. If my female legs could represent the percentile of my time on earth they would be stubby and chubby with cellulite all over. In comparison Kate Moss is a dinosaur. Her long legs span all kinds of spinning time. Let’s start at the ankles the reign of the dinosaurs. Thin and succulent. Infantile in evolution yet beasts in their own age. Then the calves, shape perfection, then to the knee caps and an ice age looms, meteors crash and an age of perfectionist beasts must die. But the stretch of her long thighs surpass those of shorter less evolved women. The skeletons of long past have been reborn and mounted in a glass cage for generations in civilisations to see.

May I suppurate over your dinner? I have wounds where healing as an outcome measure cannot dictate the scabs formation. When I fill my first moleskin I shall be so proud.  To colloquialise the stressed west this is an emotional mountain I climb and the prose journey may be lethargic and cathartic like wading through a bowl of cooling porridge. So please read on but you have been warned. Love, excrement and of course death.