(on gilded pawns)

My brain is the stumble down the spiral staircase leading no one close to nowhere worth the mere mention at fucking all.

New bruises. new scars.

And the tattoo that's just about all i have to show for the last some year of my life if it weren't for the curious enterprises that have done nothing more than cher me up and piss the fuck off the ones who know me best.

This may well be a rambling not stolen from nothing but fresh blood and the sound of the sailor boy calling out from his imaginary depths for a puppet boy to hold his hand and tell him it's all all right.

Even if he can't come morning.

So long as the night can shroud all truth and consequence all our heroes will survive in half-wrinkled smiles of bemused acceptance that they are so much more than what they all have done and in the end they will become something beautiful...

Even when the fates malign perfection.