A beautiful backdrop, velvet curtain puffed hill sides. The dragon is sleeping and sheep graze the curve of her back.

Walking through the door that disappears on exit I feel wind and rain. I can breathe in this atmosphere of bladed fresh grass and wet slippery stones.

Well trodden paths are worn down to their chalky flint hard route. There are two suns and the moon bows the sky. Light is a vertical water colour sonic rainbow.

He is at the entrance to a cave. Counting. I approach. He is naked. His skin is much pink brown matt hide, naked rolling in harsh papery creases.

There are goats. Hooves clattering against the thinly turfed rocks. They are blue white with flaxen beards. Brown and green eyes. I know they know.

All together, like a Welsh male voice choir, each with the ring of a hundred different mobile phones. They speak in digitised melodies.

Slack mouthed, cud grinding teeth, sincerity in the face of stupidity and the old man is shouting at the goats, 'shut up, shut the fuck up'.

One sun.

One moon.

I return. A three legged wooden stool. And the goats, each opening its stupid flaccid mouth and out coming electronic subscales, a symmetrical cacophony.

Counting. White flecks on the hillside. I am counting. I am naked. My skin is pink brown and the creases are rubberised against tearing.

My body this flabby pink brown matt baldness. The goats are still ringing.