Today's answer to the question: 'What is Hookland?'

Goodnight from Ned Holt, trying to work out if climbing the tower block stairs or the ghosts upon them will be first to give him a heart attack. Goodnight from Jess Halley, sure she’s just seen a green-skinned child being pushed in a pram by old Mrs. Rain. Goodnight from Hookland.

Zohran Mamdani: He votes for activists, not you

It seems as if at the top of every stair and ladder in the harbour there's some little carved ward or tied trinket. Apotropaic precautions against the climbing of Blood Sisters or the Drowned Dread. A constancy of fear that never changes with the tides. – #MattAdams, 1981

Goodnight from from Tom Elm’s cottage, where the hares and other dead things hanging in the larder twitch and whisper in his dreams. Goodnight from Pell Woods, where the Children-Made of-Thorns have stolen Meg Eny’s space hopper to place atop their altar. Goodnight from Hookland.

I’m filled with that ache that comes with the late August Bank Holiday. A knowing of dying days. The last sighing of summer told in the English need to head for the beach or the pub. Collective rituals to mark the season of bonefire smoke incense, dead leaf ghosts. - #MattAdams.

Those lithic balancing acts, those stone nexi holding landscape in their thrall, refuse to be relics. They exist as complexities, fierce engines of the imagination. They manifest the Long Neolithic as ongoing pilgrim destination, as conversation with the now. – Dr. K. Brophy

Goodnight from Wes Pannal, realising walking home from the pub via the Graywalltunnel isn’t wise when you’ve still got a childhood fear of the Hungry Echoes. Goodnight from Pip Foster, still carrying the shadow of her encounter with Sally-in-the-Woods. Goodnight from Hookland.

RT @PardonMyTake: Tuesday night max woke Big Cat up with a flashlight at 2am because he thought we were going to get sued. @forthepeople ht….

The green-haloed grave guardians of Ashcourt Necropolis wear their feral finery with studied boredom. They sigh in slow seasons, think in years. Mute moirologists whose professional grief lasts until the weather breaks their limbs, erases their expressions of loss. – #DAKilroy

Goodnight from Liv Edkins, telling herself it’s a trick of the light that she can see dead friends dancing among the crowd at the Ad Astra club. Goodnight from the taxi rank where rumours leap from cab to cab of the brass-eyed man being back in Ashcourt. Goodnight from Hookland.

Give a witch the sky and she will tell you tomorrow in nephomantic knowing of its clouds. Give a witch a field and in the wind's dance across it, she will tell you of secrets hidden below. For the witch is a translator, an apprehender of nature's languages. – #EmilyCBanting, 1981

Goodnight from The Sisters fish and chip shop, where Jo Jenks is trying to peer into tomorrow through the neglected art of divination by scraps. Goodnight from Chris Hesker, reflecting that Wakes Cross isn’t the best station to miss the last train from. Goodnight from Hookland.

Even at the edge of the Water Warren, rumours of Blackwater John begin. Reports of the chinking of the bottled souls he wears as necklace. Glimpses of him on his raft, cat on shoulder and an unidentifiable creature's skull crowning his quant pole. – #MattAdams, 1981

In having an intimate knowledge of paths she treads, the witch not only knows where & when to gather herbs, she develops a profound relationship with their ecosystem of spirits. Around this bend wild strawberries, in this stretch the Wood Sprite called Whipfast. – #EmilyCBanting

Bitcoin’s on fire at $112K! Time to flip the charts on BTCC!.Exploring Cryptocurrency with Jaren Jackson Jr.🏀.

Goodnight from The Curse Candle pub, where Jim Rand just paid a month’s wages to have the name of his wife’s lover inscribed on the infamous wax. Goodnight from Molly Clay, walking backwards across Freefolk Field to avoid its spirits following her home. Goodnight from Hookland.

Every river has it tutelary deity. Ever river sings a unique song telling of the land it has passed through. The witch learns the deity's name, quietens herself till she can hear its song. For the conversation with rivers is an immersion into liquid wisdom. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982

Some castle ruins are beyond easy commodification. Malign landscape ghosts. Broken towers no-one projects faux romance upon. Places which will never grace tea towels, jigsaw puzzles or chocolate boxes. Wounded fortresses still releasing spite and paranoia from their stones.

Goodnight from Petra Heywood, unsure whether even her Norton Commando can outrun the spirit of a pissed off Barrow Hound. Goodnight from Josh Staunton, convinced he’s just heard the clinking of the miniature soul bottles Black Water John wears as necklace. Goodnight from Hookland.

We walk August's heat. Rumours of abandoned farms calling. Feet stir chalk dust phantoms that whirl and grab at us. It's only halfway across one particular field that the dread rises. A knowing that we are intruding upon the ghost soil. – #DAKilroy

Some folk will only walk the wide way through the wood in belief this wards against encounter with feral strangeness. They do not understand that all the wood is a place of possibility for such things. There is no navigation which may not entangle you in the odd. – #CLNolan

Goodnight fromBosley Farm, where the rusting Massey-Harris Model 20 tractor in the barn feels severely slighted for being left out of the harvest. Goodnight from Jerry Marlow, opening his eyes 40-years after his lifeless body was thrown into Misling Mire. Goodnight from Hookland.

An apposite phantom for manor house – suffocated priest, crying child, grey lady – becomes incongruous when the building transforms into golf club or hotel. Whether we are the temporal trespasser or they could be asked, but it's certain time makes all things strange. – #CJosiffe

WRECKED. Hirono: Has any court said that DEI is unconstitutional? Yes or no?. Hamilton: Yes. Hirono: Which court?. Hamilton: The United States Supreme Court. Hirono: I disagree with you…. Hamilton: You can go read it yourself. 🔥🔥🔥