War Journal Day 2922

In some ways, they’re perfect for one another. He, a scheming, skulking, obscene oaf of a man, dragging his knuckles to and from work.

Always a trail of blood. It is a wonder how he came to arrive at where he is today. That wobbly, stumpy frame hides no childhood. Some say it’s human nature. Others, capitalism. Neither quite suffice. He juts out unavoidable. At once both promontory - intractable, almost natural - and otherworldly. Nothing that sinister should be explained theoretically. Yet anyone who eats himself out of obscurity deserves pity. What other use could sediment have but to break things – backs, wills, skulls? He works in tandem with gravity. As if it needs any help.

She, a three-ringed acacia, stately and attractive from a distance, loathsome and shrill up close, withered and tender inside.

Always silence. She prefers to dominate more lithely, bloodless. More metaphysically. One feels it in the walls.

He, a rock. She, an undertow.

Neither understand the rules. One assumes that’s why they stare lustily out of the window of their smallish, Cumbrian cottage. He hates women. She has no creativity for love.

One day she’ll flagellate him to death. Then they’ll both get their way.