I'm me, and what the hell can I do about it !... I who am, in the end, a continual dialogue, a loud incomprehensible voice from the tower in the depths of night. With the pain of knowing there's life to live tomorrow...

"Pill Eater"  Thoughts ...

It's before our 'drug' fix that our soul is sick.
It kicks back and quakes, feeling life,
And we go looking for some drugs to claim us.
Some orient east of the madness.

this life is going to kill many of us.
Days with nothing but a burning head,
And though we try till we're sick of trying.
We can't find the catch to adapt ourself.

In paradox and astral incompetence,
In folds of gold, we live our life.
Wavering wave where honour's pratfall
And even pleasure's the ganglia of our illness.

Through some mechanism of disasters,
Some machine with fake flywheels,
We must pass through visions of gallows
In a flower garden without trellises hung in mid-air.

We reel through the lace and lacquer
Of an inner life's handiwork.
We sense we've got the knife at home
That beheaded the Precursor.

And what we really want is faith and some calm,
And not be dogged by these confusing sensations.
God, just end it all !  Open the floodgates---
And enough of this farce in our soul's !...