chapter three Ernest flicked his cigarette out the window at the edge of the road before we began to pull off into the fields.
The fields were new and just mown in anticipation of our arrival. You could feel the hay dust already crawling like bugs under your skin, fighting to come out. It was gathering dusk already and we would have to pitch tent and call it a night soon. The battered sky was falling in the west the colour of beautiful snowfalls in the middle of July.
New towns, new faces, all indiscriminate, all odd and foreign until the moment that they form a crowd to wow at you on the tightrope. Is that what my parents and grandfather felt as trapeze and tightrope artists? All dead now, however, unable to tell the tales that they richly deserved to. Ah, if only ghosts could really tell tales. But I can tell a few of mine own now. I think that I know exactly how they felt as they donned their costumes and climbed upwards. I know that they made a pact with the devil called gravity and that one day, he would come back to collect in full when his whims were satisfied and he would let man know that that what he had grown to know, he should never had had knowlege of. The lie of flying that when we knew it was indeed a debt and a promise to be called in at any point in time that they splayed their toes upon the wires. And it was a debt that was always collected in time.  ¶ 2:11 PM