The person with me was small and nondescript, neither male nor female and he/she crossed the creek saying they were looking for someone and I let them go because I didn't care for their company. I saw remotely that this nameless quest came to nothing and they were forced to shelter for the night in a faded old shed, painted peeling red, with a bunch of vagrants who were eating stale white bread out of a plastic bag. My former companion broke off small pieces of it and scattered them on the ground, using a stick to strike the many mice that came to eat it. He/she skinned and cooked the mice, heaping their pinky red bodies on a large round platter. I experienced chewing their sinewy entireties and feeling the cooked innards spill into my mouth and remembered all the diseases carried by rodents.
REMARKS: Not sure about the horses and camping. Maybe a hangover from watching Game of Thrones? Horses usually symbolise my personal creative volition in this sort of context but it didn't feel that way this time. The lesbian jokes- we tittered our way through Basic Instinct last night and the gender-neutral companion was probably something to do with the discussions we've been having lately about the mutability of sexuality. The horribly detailed process of eating cooked mice might seem like more sexual imagery but it was definitely more to do with my fundamental conflict about consuming pickled mussels, which I did at lunch; the rubbery deliciousness always countered by the knowledge you're chewing whatever that filter-feeding bivalve managed to sieve for its own supper in an equation that looks like this // mmmm/ewwww/mmm/ew ew ewww //.