Song For A Sweetheart again being played to the one without a counterpart, unholy chasms forming in the shapes of stomachs and lungs and a gap for where the heart should be, taken like every lost jigsaw piece to the hand of a child, one not yet realising they’ll have to be with someone in the 20 years or so. To wait would be to trust the timetable that is pinned to every figment board in this town, printed in red and finished with crosses on the bottom, shame they’re written by the hand of her, for her sweetheart counterpart, not for this boy from somewhere people only pass through, not care about. I’m with you Clayton West, a ring road to the main show out of town.