. So the smoke coils surrounding a stray thought clinging to the vine as it weaves threads into a tapestry of fermented grape wrath. His pen crawls across the pages of life and ignores the punctuation, a plague infected word flow, his stream of catharsis. But the babble intrudes and sounds irk, sending resentment forward like an advance guard to meet the violence and deflect the onslaught. And the wave dies as the aggressor retreats before motley defence. But the mood has been tainted, spoiled, despite a flirtatious distraction. And the flame flickers as the smoke coils, and tired eyes avert their gaze from the perceived ***** page, the excrement of misery smeared to make nostrils flare, and the entry is left incomplete …