Treatises on Dust
The Wanderer is not the only antic text to have come into my possession. In 2001, while working in a temporary position at a London mental hospital, I discovered a bizarre scrawl, a very short narrative, on a wall. It evoked a shudder of the uncanny, for it described something fantastic, but in such a way as to seem a true account. Since that time, I’ve sought out like texts, been passed them by friends and acquaintances.