Some prose from tonight’s workshop.

He likes to feel the water slowly seep into his old, torn trainers, carefully selecting the best sod to step on as he chases sheep on carpets of heather, blown by winds that howl in his mind, sending tears streaming down his cheeks.

He dislikes slabs of concrete surrounding his senses in a world of squares, rectangles and triangles, trapped in a geometric prison, no code to escape, from a mathematical puzzle created by a computer.

He longs to be free from here forever, free to follow the breath of the birds soaring above him, over trails, forests and mountains, not caring where he will end up, living in the moment as his heart beats one more time.

He fears this moment will past, will never last, will never come again, as wet mud clings to the sweat on his skin not wanting to leave, only seeing a cold concrete landscape that sends shivers down his spine as rain drips down his throat.

He dreams of a woman who will breath the same air he does, share the mud on the marshland, fear never escaping the concrete jungle he lives in. He dreams of a woman who will take his hand and lead him to the freedom of the wilds where they can watch the birds soar over their heads…

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