An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Tuesday, July 11, 2006


Gilbert laid himself out on the futon on the balcony and looked, like Wilde, up at the stars even though one could hardly describe his location as the gutter - the moon would be full in another two days - the sky was clear and the air had cooled. He did not need to be outside but he was readying himself for the showdown. The gun was tucked into his waistband - loaded and cocked. He stared up at the constellations that he could not name nor even distinguish. He would, he had decided, sleep thus until the channel to the Laz opened for him again. He half closed his eyes and left his mind to wander waiting, only on the opening of the portal. Make no mistake he was focussed. Focused as though his very life depended upon it: for all he could tell it might well do. His appointment with literary destiny was coming and he was ready. Omnium and nihilum, he had decided were the keys to the obliteration of Laz from literature.

(to be continued ... )

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