Tuesday, November 27, 2007

One hundred days

You can always tell when I'm on a downward spiral, eating oily fish, drinking Southern Comfort and talking about survival.

The lowest bit you get, kicks in, the basement bits of the bass notes play on and drown the silence so you forget.

A hundred days without sleep and a hundred nights of sleep, a tonic for the soul and tea and biscuits for the priest.

This is the place where the rain gets in, it touches and travels every where, for the rain is so very thin.

impossible songs

impossible songs

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