Mark is a leafy gent, who leaves a trail of bracken across the beds of the world. It is for this very reason that he is known as 'Foliage Man, the Master of Woods.' He drinks chlorophyll through a pocket straw, and always keeps small owls in his hair. This is why others name him 'Masked Mark, Keeper of Owls', and present him with small alcoholic beakers via tiny, elaborate dancing steps. It is a ritual said to resemble a butterfly force-fed it's own body weight in vodka spirits. He grows ample moss on his own knees, and for this he is famously known as 'The Mossy Marauder, Weaver of Maps,' for Mark spins this moss into cartographical charts, and sells them to squirrels for five nuts apiece. He goes hither and thither and whenceforth about the land, giving birth to many names. This is why some call him 'Mark the Multiparous.' Others call him 'Schizophrenic Bubonic Bitch-Boy,' but these are unkind people, who possess tiny eyes, and enormous ears which would soon as swallow as hear a man.
Cats purring, pursuing ducks on pedalos, eccentric chimney pots, hugs, incense smoke writhing in candlelight, writhing in candlelight, neon lights in rain, old photographs of strangers, the smell of fog, drinking wine by moonlight, petrol swirling colourfully in puddles, ruined castles, steaming tea, ancient ivy, sunlight splintering through tree branches, hearing bats squeak, dead trees, sundials, the feeling of grass beneath your toes, ancient books that crumble as you touch them, fireflies, old cobbled paths, storms by the sea.