The Spectral Visitor

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Bang Bang Bang, Wllm on the staircase under his arm a huge white box, at the top, ‘the space shuttle’ (in white plastic) nudge, click, Wllm was in his bedroom. The door fell open, the train roled along on its own…Bill ’Ghosts!’, the poems of Damon Wilson hit the floor with a thud.
Gills left bossum granted to I, and right to Bill. On the day, we all three had gone to lunch early. We had reconveyned moments ago, Gill ‘is that Bill’

Wllm sneaked, behind his couch a horse shoe fell from the pelmet. She took, her tartan socks, on the radiator, padded down, and sat in his study, his face like marble.

Bill, ’…a temple…1847…drugs…the ‘fake world’ was a mirage,….some mirages must contain all else….her room…..a hand flew around the room…looked in the cushions, …and sat on the arm of the settee…’

Hattie and Stephen in whose light his mother has been compared to a womble, sharing a film, ‘As a boy, historical’,
Stephen “I have a friend, who runs his own tropical island, I had thought of never leaving England”, Hattie said “is he vicious”,
Stephen, “No he’s sweet, 3 million quid, he wants me to visit, oh I must buy a new pair of shorts, as my others are far to big”
Hattie clopped along the corridor with her case, ‘Ho…Ho…Ho’, came from the room.
Hattie returned with a tin of custard, and lowered the slurping elevator.

Darkness arrived in a black leather jacket, Ozzy Osborne, Ozzy 'Hoy Diarmuid', (audience) 'Wuuuuuuw'.

Mrs Hayridge and Stephen Fry sped accross London in a French grey covertable. A Cessna turned on the tarmac, 'we've searched it from top to bottom', the police drove away, they all sneaked into the back of the plane. (Hattie) 'Owww', an orange juice.

Lost paths
Finding me, 15 years ago, might have been difficult, stepping assuredly along old tracks, unscaped parks, cobbles, castles, where ever I walked. Gave me the idea, I introduced a nightscope, later people strapped lights to their heads, but its not the same in the pitch dark to lose oneself in the past.
I introduced strobing, I think, a slow strobe on the path infront, gives you the unerring, jump into the void of a raspberry bush, it conditions all your responses likewise, which would carry back into normal life.
One day, my blackened figure, clumped down a valley on the Viking way, below a dayglo road, shunted its pelican, a noise chuff, chuff could be tracked over the engines, in the gloom, steam rose from a nose, a dragons, deer like head, 15ft kneck, faun antlers, swept back ears, steam billowing from the jaw, and spouts of steam chuffed out 8 inches into the frosty air, 120ft/3 rings, of body coiled around.