Like orcs of Mordor they burst against the inside of my cranium.
The night has been uneasy. I’ve run someone over. The car is moving but I have no key. I’m in the driver’s seat. I’ll have to invite the injured into my house. Just when I find new rooms at the back I can clean out fix up and inhabit, an invasion of unwanted guests. I’m a rude host. Put that down! We don’t use that ugly old silver except on Christmas Day!
On my walk to work across the valley I forget to be mindful, except in moments. The colours of autumn, dull now under an overcast sky. People wearing winter black, waiting for the streetcar. The head piece of some earth-tearing device, two metal claws extended, lies decapitated above the tennis courts.
The interior crush keeps dragging me back. Severed heads, hands, legs. Blood. Gaps where there should be teeth.
There are bridges all over Mordor, bridges and gaps and bridges to more gaps. Bridges. But no openings.