Not particularly cosy and warm during dinner when all are bundled up on the sofas watching tv with the woes of work peering through the keyhole of the door tightly shut.

Nor tranquil and soothing in the morning as you slump through the pale blue bathroom with your body and mind working aggressively against the inevitable routine that will discharge all the energy you gained during last night's rest.

It conveys less about passion and adventure for love and life than the vivid red that somehow decided to reside the kitchen walls to remind everyone that your life mostly...

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Crap. This wasn't going to be good.

The old man said 'Let's go deer hunting. Just like old times. Reconnect after all those years of you pissing away your life on the other side of the world.'

That was last night. We drank to it. He had some incredible Irish Whiskey. 12 year old. We killed a bottle. I hoped like hell that he'd forget the hunting plans.

He didn't.

Oh, Christ, he didn't.

My brain was tuning timpani drums in my skull. Like O Fortuna was ramping up. There was a fog over the field that may or may...

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Walking slowly through the bush, the elephant dragged its feet. Today he felt no joy.

The village lay behind him. Here were fields he could trample in revenge. Here were corn cobs he could eat, juicy and succulent. Here were the years growth of food supplies, enough to feed a family for a year. And he could destroy it all. If he chose to.

Today, he chooses not to.

Yesterday was different. Yesterday, he was fierce and proud. Head of the herd, head of the bush, head of the tribe; ah yes, he was the head of it all.


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