Frank ran as fast as he could through the mud. If one moves too slowly in this kind of mire, ones feet sink in to the ground, making things much harder. He had already lost his left shoe about 300 yards back there at the bottom of a hard gravely mound which he had leaped from.

He was now far enough from the motorway that everything was pitch black and he ran in the direction of some street lights that were perhaps half a mile ahead of him. He stopped to catch his breath and looked back in the direction he had run from. He half expected to see torches flashing, helicopters buzzing overhead, the headlights of off-road vehicles, to hear a commotion and dogs barking. But there was nothing. He decided to trudge slowly forwards. No point in wasting energy he reasoned. The sudden rush of blood inspired a giddy moment of soberness.

A shape slowly appeared, it was a church, the car-park was surrounded by hedges which separated the field Frank stood in from the town this church belonged to. He ran to the hedge and tried to scissor jump it. He landed on the left side of his face, his body slumped on the smoothly tarmacked ground. He became suddenly aware of his appearance, a drunk man of his late 30s in a pinstripe suit, shirt open, tie stuffed in the top pocket, one leg torn badly, a shoe missing, a beard (now looking rather unmaintained), a pocket full of change and broken glass, slightly malodorous with a distinctly tramp-like bouquet. At least he hadn't wet himself.

Frank realised that his only chance to travel home without looking out of place would be to abandon his car and use public transport. Public transport was the only way for the insane (criminally and otherwise), the drunk, the retarded, the disturbed, depressed, too old, too short, too fat, too poor, too thin, too smelly, and various misfits of miscellany to travel unencumbered by the unreasonable pressures of ordinary society.

"I say. You get some right funny ones on the bus don't ya?"

"How do you mean funny? Enaging random passers-by in insipid coversation?"

They say that the things you own really own you.

I wish they would sell me and buy someone new.

Frank had long since come to the conclusion that we are all mad. When you look at it objectively and impasionately. With that fact established, then why not have fun? Too many times he had tried and failed to represent this particular ideology in such a way that his enemies would come to understand it. However failure was starting to seem like a permanent fixture in these little adventures he liked to call "operational maneuvers".

He had been physically removed, dragged like this from busses and other forms of public transport on more occaisions than he cared to recall right now. With the plastic bag pulled hard across his face like this it was difficult to explain. "How dare you!" he gurgled. "Public transport is clearly the correct forum for my expression!", but it seemed to come out less coherently than that.

And there he was, standing alone at a bus stop somewhere in Ravensthorpe with no obvious place to go. Then the rain came.

He had killed a man before, but never really thought it worth mentioning. Where was she anyway? Could she have better things to do? He doubted it. Anyway, that was a long time ago when he was down on his luck in Norristhorpe, and a man who doesn't really exist can get away with these things. For this long at least. He overheard the old women behind him complaining about the weather. He couldn't understand why. Cleckheaton was always this grey, even when the sun came out.

There she was! "Excuse me", he shouted. "My breakfast doesn't have a grilled tomato, you forgot the tomato". He gestured towards his plate, stacked high with five of the requisite six items which go to make up a full English breakfast. Saussages, eggs, mushrooms, bacon and hash browns (the toast and/or fried bread doesn't count). "I can't begin to eat my breakfast without the tomato", he explained, beginning to sound rather concerned. The waitress sighed, "perhaps it's hiding under your egg" she said with a dry smile, deliberately escalating the tension. She saw something in his eyes, and evaluated the situation in an instant. "I'll just get one for you" she said chirpily, before rushing behind the counter.

When she came back, he ate his breakfast quickly and in silence, starting as he always did, with the tomato. "I've killed before!" he shouted unsteadily. A few people looked round, noticed that there was noone near him he could plausibly have been talking to, and quickly looked back at their plates. He grumbled something. This was a forum for the insane he thought as he buttoned up his coat and stepped out in to the bus station.

He stood at stand 3. He had no intention of catching a bus.

He stood in his appartment room. The room was perhaps 8 meters by 10. The bed was against the long wall and there was a small table doubling as a desk directly infont of it against the opposing wall, a chair intervening. On the table sat his laptop, a couple of books, his wristwatch, some scraps of paper, and an empty orange juice carton, that kind of orange juice that was thick with bits of orange pulp.

He had tidied hastily, and had no idea how long he had been stood by the chair. He was looking down at nothing in particular, the angle he was looking at reminded him of the point of view of dead people in first person computer games, it was the opposite of that angle.

Then the idea came. He felt light, so perhaps it was natural for the idea to come, as he knew that many people had reached the same idea before him. But somehow today the idea felt tangible, not tangible like a brick, but tangible like dough, a freely floating, particularly light and fluffy dough. He supposed it would make a good donut.

But there he was, the idea forming, the truth making itself known. All he had to do was lean forward a little. Lean forward just a little too much so that it felt like falling, dizzy, he had felt that falling feeling before. Not real falling, it was too subtle for that, but just knowing that there was nothing there to catch you if you fell.

So this is the first step in unaided human flight. To have started falling slowly. But at this point his feet were still on the ground. He suspected that sudden movement would bring him to his senses and he would surely fall, like Wile E. Coyote in the road runner cartoons. The movement had to be fluid. Natural.

Easily, he slid his feet backwards such that he could feel his center of gravity move up to his chest. Normally this would send him in to a panic, like that feeling you get before drifting to sleep and you bring yourself back to alertness by kicking violently to break your fall. That urge had been supressed.

And there it was. Flight. Somehow he was higher up than where he was when he started. Higher than head level, maybe a couple of feet higher. But still feeling like he was essentially falling maybe there was some kind of wind pushing him up, or more likely a kind of natural buoyancy. But it could be controlled, not very well, the way sky divers must control their direction and orientation. Using the forces surrounding them, not applying external force.

He looked down and altered his position, raised his feet. This caused a gentle impulse that propelled him forwards over his bed, and across to his sofa. He turned around, the technique he used for doing this, just beyond concious comprehension but the movement was slow and steady as ever. He felt warm inside and out. He questioned the warmth, the warmth turned to tiredness his eyelids, heavy.

The sun was still shining outisde, but that low evening shine, that cast everything with that yellowish hue, reflected from the sandstone buildings around his appartment. That warming glow wouldn't disturb his sleep, he thought, on the contrary in fact.

He felt the rough shod pile of pillows and duvets on the bed calling him closer, just slowly closer. Until he could only just reach down to touch one. Reaching down as if picking something up from the bottom of a swimming pool. It reminded him of childhood, that desire to know what it felt like to touch a cloud. Except now he was desiring only sleep. In this state he was often reminded of things he wondered about as a child. Great things, small things, curious things. As he sunk slowly down in to the bed, that warmness turned once again to satisfaction. He had found one of the answers that day.

On saturday I was almost overcome by a sudden urge to leave EVERYTHING, walk out of my appartment jump on the next flight to the Phillipines and live a life style of drinking, drug abuse, hooker abuse, and making money in casual labour and selling my blood at a blood bank as often as they would let me. I would buy a cheesy shirt, chew gum, smoke too much, and carry a knife, a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards at all times. I would know all of the seediest bars and the lapdance clubs. I would know all of the drug dealers, and black market types. I'd maybe get in a few barroom brawls. I'd lose teeth, sweat beer, wake up feeling like shit every morning and maybe kill a man. I would maybe spend some time working around the docks, or on cargo ships, perhaps with a sideline in smuggling. I would end my childish addiction to haribo sweets, and learn rudimentary kung-fu. I would wear cheap jewllery, and a cheap wristwatch, always have a tooth pick in my mouth. My voice would perhaps degenerate to a low growl due to constant abuse of my larynx. And I would die alone, probably because of the drink.

But then maybe I just listen to too much Tom Waits?

I made a tea, and curled up with a novel instead.

Morover, I suck.