Like a fragment of love and dust, the Lovetrucker blows into town from away, cocooned in ego and propelled by turbo-prop. How this speck of earth sings from high above, skinned by mist.

Once again he gets banged from pillar to post in this pinball game called existence. Work and searching brings the bag of bones closer to the desert of earthly delights. Wrenched from mountain hideaway, the old fool sits in stratospheric comfort and chews the cud of memories.

Dropped into new circumstances the Lovetrucker buckles up on captain's orders and cross checks his heart. The faint spirit of this planet chuckles as some are tossed and some are lost in the lottery of life. Assume crash position is the safest way, expecting the worst, then rejoice in survival. Death later. Right now this lovely world abounds in molecules of joy.

So now he's here, which is to say that time and stone have melded to extrude this broken rock. Standing in the main street, the Lovetrucker barely registers but he is one of many and together we are here. We really are.

In spite of knowing nothing, he knew less than he thought. Even the birds turned against him, mimicking his manic actions as he danced across the slippery surface of life. The old crow preyed on him, scratching its claws across the tin roof and dive bombing him as he struggled in the feeble sunlight.

Nevermore he thought, vainly hanging on to his pride like a bunch of keys from previous houses. He, the Lovetrucker, the eternal protagonist of the receding road, tried to put it out of his mind and succeeded like the old fool he was. Now he stood on the bank of the lugubrious lake and peered into the muddy layers of his past.

As if on cue, a dark shape rose out of the mire, its shaggy head a mirrored image of his own profound fears. It seemed incongruous but strangely expected, as if a old friend had suddenly arrived, welcome yet unwelcome. Bathed in the afternoon gloom, the Lovetrucker poured out his heart to no one in particular, as the firmament raged around him.

No more than a delicacy to be consumed by the ravages of time, his body wobbled and throbbed to the music of the lapping lake. The creature retreated into the deep and the Lovetrucker retreated into his shell.

The Lovetrucker missed the turn in the fog and the rig slewed across the road, jackknifing in the worst way possible. Time slowed down, which was a good thing but the truck crashed through the concrete bollards and tumbled down an embankment, which was a bad thing.

His ears filled with the sound of screaming and the world tumbled past his windscreen. Life mattered after all, he realised, in all its resplendent minutiae. The music of destruction played around him, an cadenza of chaos, fortissimo and andante.

It was almost disappointing to realize that he was probably dreaming, that life couldn’t end so wretchedly and old age would be his true vocation. Why was he in the roadhouse again, a bland spirit in the prime of his death? Who are you people who crowd around?

The symphony of shrieking metal faded in the distance and the Lovetrucker knew he had experienced yet another premonition of his untimely end, when all would stop and this world of pain would drip upon the upturned road. Who could paint this scene, this calamity of form and mass, this dire collision of love and fate?

His body lies broken in the roadhouse chair again, victim to himself and every minute of the day. A final twist and the truck lands upon its feet again and he rises to the night.

The Lovetrucker sat quite still and the earth moved around him. His spirit trembled like a leaf on the autumn tree, as the quiet sky drained of light. The cursor having cursed moved on, much as the sack of skin around him slowly sagged in deference to gravity and age.

So life struggles on like a fish swimming upstream. Absurd really, that flash of thought and thump of heart that propels and motivates the wayward Lovetrucker to stay on track and watch the white line. Where was I in that sleep of life?

Unexpectedly the unexpected happened. I had shucked off the crumbling skin of sickness and I stumbled out of the seedy motel that had held me hostage for so long into a bright new life. Where were the manamalistic creatures of my desperate imagination? Where indeed were the implicit threats of swooping demons and muttering ogres?

My descent into self deepened with the days. It was as if I had always been in that room, groaning in that bed, staring at the unopened bible on the bedside table and fiddling with the remote control, my Eucharist that connected me with Great God TV. Here I lay amongst the unwashed sins of my bedclothes.

The good news was that I could finally get out of bed. The bad news was that I headed straight for the toilet. The disease is the cure, except when it’s fatal. I spent a long time examining the bathroom tiles.