I'll take my worn boots out for the day. The nails in their soles insist on pricking me, leaving a jagged wound as a memento of every step I take...
Time to fly to faraway places and leave you all behind, but I'm afraid that all too often art (or what passes for it) copies life, or was it the other way around?
If I hear the word "blame" being bandied about once more, I'll loose the little stash of sanity I preciously keep for my everyday. I'll take the whole fiction of blame, and choke it down my throat if it please the one I really care about.
The only reality I can abide is a call that won't (or can't) come.
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