Wyzerland

I would like to spend the day on the slope of a mountain, listening to a parable about a lost sheep or a blighted vineyard.

For months my only companion would be this story, and the more I told it to myself the clearer everything would become.

Then, I would remove my helmet of opinions and walk into the public streets revealing the soft brown mushroom of my new head.

I would repeat the story to all groups of men drawing illustrations in the ground with a stick. I would leave them murmuring in a circle.

And late at night when the cold wind found the chinks of my house and disturbed the candle snub next to my bed,

I would hear the story told by the tongue of flame and watch te shadows of my former self flicker on the low ceiling and the walls of stone.