[Keith Stryton III]

No, no, he isn't a dog. He's a man. I know he watches me, when I go outside I see his curtain twitch. I offered to take him to the pub, to buy him a drink, but he's never interested. It's a shame really for both of us; he just doesn't see that. He's on his own and I'm on my own and there's just a wall separating us and it's so daft and sad, isn't it?

Anyway, I'm not posting about that. It's nice to be able to use this medium to speak to you all. It's important for me, so thank you. I like to get things off my chest, especially when you're on your own. I go to the gym, sure, but no one wants to talk, not even when you offer some of them a bottle of your water. And I've got work - I didn't get the part of Brick, and FOG ISLAND has fallen through, but I'm in rehearsals for a new play in Keynsham with the amateur dramatics, I'll let you know how that goes. Still, being indoors on your own, well, it gnaws at you. It's like being in a hall of mirrors; you get sick of yourself.

Right, getting to the point, another dream:

I fell asleep on the floor last night and wandered through creeping tendrils of icy fog. A ramshackle house loomed, broken steeple jabbing through the fog like a broken finger. There was a sign creaking in the wind - KEITH'S HOUSE. I walked towards it, shuddered, pushed open the door. A moan of hinges. Glass cracking under my shoes. I stepped into stale, stale darkness. To my right - a set of stairs. All over the walls were pictures I remembered painting when I was a child: pictures of stick people and lemon suns and bubble cars. Slowly, I ascended. Stairs creaking, sighing, hissing. Now the pictures had changed. Up the stairwell there was writing: words from love letters I penned to a girl I once loved, scrawled all over the woodchipped walls. At the top of the stairs the darkness breathed...

Clive woke me up with a scream - "DON'T GO ANY FURTHER!" I sat up on the floor, dazed, disorientated, close to tears. I knew, and Clive knew, that if I went any further, than the house would have me. I wouldn't be able to come back. I would be there forever.

"May be I want to go. May be there's nothing left for me here," I told Clive, later.

The pepper pot sat silent on my tabletop.

I know I will dream about that house again. May be next time I will get to the top of the stairs. Who knows what waits for me there? I will. I will if I get three knocks in a day. I got two today (I didn't get a horror DVD through the post and I bashed my shin on the table). If I get THREE knocks at ANY point I will go up there. I will go. I will. I might not come back.