Prologue Poem by Mark Pollins

We are running out of time. The red sunset is poisonous gas for all we know. The clashing sea, so vibrant and alive, is dead tar now. We have reached a state of development, technological wonder, that has left our souls bare. In my brand new car, padded with soft carpet, inoffensive colours, my world is secure, my horizon is clear. The painted road marks lead the way to a familiar and comfortable journey going nowhere. We will use anything to stop ourselves thinking, writing. Is it a sandwhich? turning on the t.v.? turning down a sexual offer? Whatever it is, I will choose it, to make sure the pattern of thought is interrupted. If at some point something marvellous does slip out, evolving into fame then money, the material objects will block up my nose, the car fumes will suffocate my will to explore.