On holiday on the islands.  Green mountains encircled by concrete roads.  The sound of water dripping, constantly.  Roads burrowed through mountains. 

And that absurd tunnel or secret passage which I found in my travel journal yesterday.  Leading from page 14 to page 52. A dark, dank passage full of rusting pipes, smelling of stale petrol and wet coal.  Illuminated occasionally - grotesquely, neon-like - upon a wall, a phrase like Be careful her heart is made of tissue paper.  Having to get out of that passage. I mean, I cannot make any useful connections between the two pages, so why does this passage exist?. A typical trait of mine is found on page 14: alliteration, one of the few literary devices my body breeds is clearly stencilled into its fleshy vellum. Yet is curiously absent from page 52 which resembles nothing so much as an abstract X-ray photograph or punk song circa 1976 full of old bones and black bile.

I'm still smarting over
He has a negative memory, as I come out of the bathroom.  On top of this a sign and a poster both jerk into my head.  Cashmachine (all one word) and The Sky is Perfect When it's Blue (an advert for Moersk Air). Both from the airport.  You would think I have jet lag or something.
'Who's been using my
Ron Thompson?' I ask, unable to dampen the accusatory tone.
Silence.  I look down at the small, round tin in my trembling hands.
Improves buoyancy in tired floating lines and transforms neutral-density lines.
Carol, the culprit, I knew it, raises an arm, hesitantly, likes she's just been asked who the King of Prussia is in a history lesson and is not one hundred per cent sure of the answer. Colin, her spouse, blushes for her. Torben says:
'But Carol, you don't fish.'
A puzzled look spreads over Carol's features, like a ripple over a mountain lake when a salmon jumps, glinting into the early morning sun.

And then, in the weak artificial light of the hotel room, I look more closely at Carol's unusually grey features and a light bulb of greater wattage lights up in my rickety brain
.  Light/And behind the light/ Light. And I realize.
'Carol, this is for my fishing tackle.'
Are you a muse or a mouse?  Make note: Must stop keeping travel journals.
'Tackle, as in fishing lines,' Torben puts in.
I show her the top of the
Ron Thompson lid and read off:
... and transforms neutral-densisty lines into floaters or sink tips.  I mean, what did you think it was, a facial treatment? And these plain-speaking fisherman's words, some new-fangled form of beauty jargon?'
'Well, actually, actually yes,' she stutters.
I detect a flamingo pink under the claylike grey as Colin quickly bustles her into the bathroom and briskly turns the key in the lock. 
'Boy, do we need to get up to that lake, and how,' Torben says.

          Anthony Kane Evans 2004