out amongst the hills of south mid wales, where, deep within the land's core, spring is beginning to wind its young and green way upwards(not far from where two lovers played out their whole familiar story for all and none to see on a windy hilltop where, once, daffodils and bluebells bloomed together), a land which, in a few months only, will be awash with all the greens of summer and the swish of cars (and roadworks), lies a small town. the smallest of the land, so they say, where drugs and severe alcoholism are, allegedly, rife (as is bog snorkelling - is this a mere coincidence? you decide). Amongst the few buildings of this village, a small, cast iron shed, filled with complicated and finger-cutting machinery, paper and more political motivation than any other building within a twenty mile radius, i'd imagine.
here two fifty-somethings, both recently seperated from their respective partners, for several years have, together, informed the locals as well as the welsh anti nuclear movement, through writing and the press.
now, a revolution begins
(step aside banksy)



appologies, parenthesis wildly overused, writing spontaneous and dangerously near poor poetry, humour inappropriately used, material immarterial and widely incomprehensible. either i'm an awful writer or so damn good i don't have to make sense. (i'm pretty sure i know which it really is.. though i wasn't trying that hard or anything..)
I want to go to university RIGHT NOW, dammit