This world; it's banal evil, it’s relentless fear. There must be some place to escape it. Inside, the worlds tumble in a bright kaleidoscope of fiction. Adventures made, loves set, wonders seen. The quick dashes of fury and the long pang of melancholy. All of it is a cocoon against the white mundanity of the world outside.
But the source is somewhere. Is there a purity to it? Must it come from within?
Or does it come from without, dredging in the cruel filth of the world that is?
I think perhaps it is both. For all the brightness of a world makes formless things without shadow.
Paddy Dobson
20th August 2021