You see, I go and live with Pond Man when the pain becomes too much; and perhaps that is where all myth starts, in the realm of pain as the body screams out for another realm, another way of seeing, another world. Release. Pond Man’s house holds no exigencies. His hazel fence, his daubed door, his steel tap and copper kettle are but ideas, images. Strangely, I do not feel responsible, I remain detached, although I move around these images in my mind's eye, following his hands, the outline of his back, the curve of his shoulders, the line of his dark brow if he turns towards me - he does not always, he has a mind of his own. Pond Man is omniscient and I am let off the hook.