when franz kafka wrote โi cannot make you understand. i cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside meโ and when sylvia plath wrote โcan you understand? someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?โ
In the morning the stranger had gone, with his big pack. Heโd left us each a gift, wrapped in a burdock leaf, done up with a bit of string. Mine was a hook made of bone, Tony had a skail knife made of flint, Jan had a scarf made of nettle yarn. Pink had four tiny iron horseshoes.
It was just the 4 of us, eating Tonyโs bacon & eggs, feeding cardboard & bits of punk & debris into the rocket stove to keep us warm. We drank more tea & shared a packet of biscuits. (Chocolate hobnobs. The best of the best.) In the quiet dark Pink said he could hear singing.