i wrote the same letter again today.

in the car
on my way home
i wrote you a letter
in my head.

black night.

a child cries
in a house
behind a locked door

as bats cling to the walls
like black velvet breathing
and an intolerable screeching
fills the room

no one will ever know
if it was the bats
or the child
wailing.

what is left is not right.

'Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible - nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas - where their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their souls have been nourished.'