My memory is just a darkroom, where every picture ever taken by eye sight: Waits. Develops. They accumulate in Black and white, Positive and negative. My mind the developer, my thoughts the water, removing the excess silver halide. What remains is a picture, a memory taken from this very life They hang from thin lines fastened by close pins so delicate and so fine To dry, To develop And remain to live in the safelight within my mind. But you see that light has left, Now every picture is Too over exposed, Too vague And too undefined. I’ve had too much drink, so much smoke. A stop bath of the wrong kind. Too much green and blue light. You see, my darkroom is too bright Now the pictures that hung from the close pin lines of life dilute, shrivel And fade. Now, What remains is a picture-less memory, and no clear recollection or reflection. No darkroom for every photograph ever taken by eyesight, No pictures of black and white. There is just one final question… Who am I?