The well trodden paths of the mind.

She hands me an old A5 notebook. Other than the yellowing of its pages, it’s surprisingly un-weathered by time.   She is smirking at me as if there is something hidden somewhere inside it. I page through it, taking a while to recognise myself in the handwriting. A page is dated Wednesday, 15th May 1997; notes…

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I meet myself in a Labyrinth

Enter the labyrinth. The crunch of stones beneath my feet. The chime of wind in the trees. A canvas, calling me away from my own neurotic tale. Stories upon stories turning their pages through the stillness of the morning. I turn, only to meet myself again. A young man on a padded matt, tying knots…

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