I was lying in bed, going to sleep after reading a couple of chapters about a raft, running from peril on the Thames, by Jonathan Stroud, and I had a strange thought. I had to get up and out of bed. Sleep would not come now.
What if all these pictures, of strange wilds, and mystical events, that I have been scattering thickly about in clerkmanifesto, are like the woods and wilds I have been wandering in and photographing? What if they're all just here, the world itself, and I can slip off the trail, climb up a stream that winds into the marshes, and gulp in the air?
No, like a dream, and maybe I was really asleep, it all is too hard to make sense of for you now.
You are walking in the woods. It is Autumn. When you started there were people around, but you have winded into the weeds and the back country and no one is around. Seeds cling to your pants. There is a creek to steer by and marvel at. There is a big old tree leaning over from its great trunk soul planted a mile deep in the mud. You glide over the grass on your small human feet.
You look down and see this note.
Only you can read it.