Writing over the past month or more has consisted of two half hours on flights – one there and one back….and I think a blog post (not here….shhhh).

In the meantime (and it was a mean time; a time of distractions, a short period of joy, followed hard on by depression and self-loathing), I thought about the nature of The Man who fell from the Sky.

It is not a novel although I believe it to be somewhat novel.

It is not a poem although the prose is more poesy than prosy at least in parts.

It is not a work of art although it contains photographs (and the pics that verge on and cross over the verge into genius are not mine but borrowed) and drawings and odd and wondrous fonts in colours including black.
For this moment – the moment here as I write – it is art in words and imagery.

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