Mist. A man outside his tent,
unsure of what he’s doing in a tent,
in that he has absolutely no idea
how he got there, and the grass
is not the same colour he remembers
and the hills are not hills –
they are giants.
It could be Friday evening,
in June, at least he think it’s Friday
but it’s hard to tell because
the matte grey of the sky is timeless.
A telephone rings.
A woman’s voice is on the other end;
she wants to know the truth.
A tower block burns in the distance.
The man sees this as symbolic
of the necessity of running
for surely the flames will spread
and then he will have nowhere to turn,
no one to validate his search.
Cut to Shoreditch.
A couple are having a conversation
on a bench. A bus driver slams
the breaks, a child drops their toy.
Grey sky, wind.
The woman tells the man,
she is leaving-
she’s tired of sitting on the sofa
while he slips between
two states of being – one employed
by a search for purpose,
the other tied to a life of writing.
The man tells the woman –
writing is the only purpose he believes in,
she laughs and tells him
he must be dreaming.
Shot of the man’s hands –
clenched, road noise, fade out.
Return to the hills,
the man is alone.
He is holding a map in his hand.
He is out of breath.
Close up of mud on his shoes.
Wind in the trees. Rain.