In restless sleep, I will dream of virtuous government.

With merciless policies clearing the nests of poets and narrators. Of moral exactness and shaming psychological illuminations by sudden floodlight.

I will dream of a literature which evades beauty with duplicitous integrity.

The good have none of the best weapons. They do not have the best lines. Their images are tattered.

The others have the fire. They triumph before the rain tumbles over us and batters with what’s left of the good.

I spent a lifetime as a body, preparing to have these reams now approaching a reader and the way the reading, especially the process of challenging assumptions and expectations, is managed.

As a body, I travelled with death and pain, with malpractice, have been battered with corruption and betrayal almost constantly for at least a decade, with impossible love and dreamless sleep…

…twisting and shouting with nightmares.

If you don’t arm yourself against fiction right now, you are click bait.