I would often lie in the arms of the Bard in my Taylor Wimpey luxury flat in The Denizen. I remember the first time in Golden Lane with my face pressed against his beard smelling of incense and sandalwood, when he bade me — “Remember”; and I remembered. I dreamed I was a valley boy bathing in the cool, limpid waters of the Afon Taf: and he was a girl whom I had seduced to my pleasure on the river-shore, whilst the bells of a Druid grove called me in vain to my twilight prayers. I came to my senses, I remember, this time, with a strange, new feeling of power. Was that girl really the Bard? The girl had been so humble, so yielding, so weak; and after possession I had been so utterly indifferent. Was there, indeed, Nemesis in man’s allotted fate?
There was no heaven above for me, no world; why should there be? There was nothing in my life but The Denizen and the Bard. Life was a sweeping of itself in great and tender waves of emotion to nothingness: Wang Xiaotang had gone away for ever. Those experiences in The Denizen left me devoid, for ever, of any capacity for emotion or happiness. One day, the Bard said he had to leave me, and though I wept, he insisted that it must be; for his pupils awaited him and his preaching. He bade me wait in The Deinzen and that when he returned he’d be with me forever.
In my vision I’d seen my angel lovingly murder Tao. I’d seen the political slogans written in blood on the wall. I’d heard the woman's laughter and although I had a clear recollection of looking around me, I had seen no one else. Yet all the evidence pointed to the dead man's brother being present. Was there lurking deep inside my subconscious a love that dare not speak it’s name? Ultimately would I find it more erotic to have my life snuffed out by a man? Was this why I bought and hung on the walls of my London apartment Xiyadie's paper cuttings depicting tormented gay desire. Pictures I didn’t dare hang on the walls of my properties back home!