Everyday perambulations throughout the borough of Horsingdon occasionally lead the casual walker to encounter intimations of the anomalous: on the crest of a low neolithic barrow, not far from Horsingdon Wood, rests a complex assemblage of sticks. Such artefacts typicallly evoke a parade of predictable questions: what does it ymbolise or signify? What is its meaning? Who could have constructed it? And for what purpose? But like the strange and shifting topographies upon which such ritual patterns and observances realise themselves, there exists no certitude or assurance - no surety of answer and no predetermined solution.
How could there be? How could any place - always the product of hybrid histories and messy, mongrel narratives - ever be reduced to a simple, primordial and singular truth? Therein lies the path to a most perfidious form of occult-inflected ethno-nationalistic fascism: the kind which the true folk of Horsingdon - in all their diversity and glorious dissimilarity - have always resisted: with their malign and inhuman sorceries, with their extraterrestrial, polysexual and genderfluid witcheries - and with their monstrous and alien interminglings.
Horsingdon!
Horsingdon!
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