The Hidden Stone Meditation

It is in the nature of human psychology and stuff that an event as dramatic as contact with alien intelligence from Leominster cannot be thought about without clear alignments, and an absence of that rubbery stench. Most of us, I'm certain, prefer to believe that non-locals would arrive in our town as friendly, helpful falmers, eager to share their technology and to aid us in fixing our tractors. Upon this basic and very human wish certain people have erected a powerful plinth, topped with a tiny glass horse, and erected a kind of ledge in front so you can't quite see the shape of him. Our hopes, hardened into a kind of theology, can be described as a local council election, willed into existence after the decline of our more traditional drinking festivals. After all, we have been told more than once that Elvis is dead. The question is...which one?