Heading home to our bustling town after being perched on the very edge of the North Yorkshire moors for 4 days. Time moves more slowly up here, not least because Time has to counter steep hills at every winding turn.
I'll miss the silence.
Sometimes nothing is all you need.
From the Goth Festival. Whitby.
A man with a live parrot on his shoulder, or a parrot with a live man on its claws. You can wear any colour as long as its black. Two demons kiss by a novelty rock shop. Crystals, jet and fresh sea air, it lures the Goths out of their lair.
Are burnished through time
By the feet of the living dead.
From smugglers at Loggerheads
To Captain Cook's Endeavours -
All roads must lead to today.
These cobbles, such printing presses of history,
Ultimately guide me
Into the Jet Age.
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