When
your head starts to hurt and there's sweat on your shirt and your hands have a tremble, when you've picked up a pen but can't remember quite when and what for and the floor looks inviting for another night writing, but you're right in  the middle of something and something they say is better when hot but the memory's shot full of pitfalls and holes that you fall in and you're falling, who's going to save you now?

So you share your possessions which are nine-tenths of nothing and nothing is there but the emptiness that's outside you which is hard and unyielding, a shield built before you were born.

The island breaks away from the fault lines of a day and drifts into the middle of nowhere and you've been there before you were born.

Torn from the pages of magazines, gleaning the news from the popular press is depressing, ******* my spirit to put some more in it and a bottle of brandy or gin helps with that.

Whoever is calling me tell them I'm falling free, tell them I'm on the way out.
Speak still of me present tense and let there be no pretense, I haven't sold off my soul for a bucket of coal and some kindling to put on the fire, I'm alive and still kicking it, picking at the pie and perhaps sticking a finger in it, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

When,
your head starts to hurt and the ache gets much worse I remember it can and there's no man out there that can possibly compare the pain that's in here with anything and on that point I'm clear,
Live as you find  because at some stage in your life you'll go out of your mind with the worry and grief and there's little relief, but you knew that before you were born.