My monkey called Design

My wolves are not for asking, nor is the crazed child who eventually became the wife of someone.

My dreams are full of hostility and wild takeovers, the mood was intense.

Our frontiers at that time were grassy hillocks, burned dry by high sun in unforgiving afternoons. I had a cousin who visited and he died in the fields because he had worn only suncream and not the protective suit we had supplied him with.

I tried to gather my thoughts but my mind just turned to food. Egg and chips, to be precise.

Why did it do that? Well, I don't know to be sure, but something tells me that tomorrow's excursion will bring a lot of answers.

I am happy, I suppose. The only thing that eats me is the pain of friends - a pain I cannot cure.

These pages go on forever, and I never feel as though I've moved anywhere. It would help if I knew what I was looking for.

I suppose I'm lost.

Hey, didn't you say you could develop that story in a new pattern?

Not a night in tartan?

No, it was more like a circuit board; a long, neon strip of blues and greys and ancient hope that nobody knows what to do with.

These are worn out phrases, said my monkey. My monkey design. My monkey called Design.