Black pen, red blood, dreams...

Black pen, red blood, but at the end of the day it’s all thought.

I picked up a book last night for the first time in a long time. Oh, I’ve been reading, but kindle rather than paper and with the coming darkling nights a good tale seems to be in order.

There’s nothing like a good tale to add to the chill of these lengthening evenings - tales of the circus, tales of boyhood past, tales of murderers and tattooed men, and mystery, and life on Mars, and the whistle of a steam train as it rolls on into the dark black night.

Dark tales, strange tales, Ray Bradbury tales - tales of thought to make me think. I can hardly wait. One hundred Ray Bradbury stories in a single tome, three inches thick, a pound in weight, a thousand pages long - an autumn’s worth of wonder to make me dream my dreams.

I'll tell you about them when I have them. Not the person who gave me the book though. She's away on Mars with the murderers and tattooed men, mocking at my boyhood past, ignoring the circus as she rides to the whistle of a steam train as it rolls on into the dark black night.

'Come on, shorts. We'll take a walk.' One day perhaps.

Yes, black pen, real red blood, but at the end of the day it’s all thought - and dreams.

I think that I can hear the doodles coming.