Memoirs of a Life Unlived

They come over in droves and march to the top of the hill which affects the weather causing markets to crash and mayhem. How else to explain the mould on the pickle, bats in the belfry and your wife's temper? Only last week I saw a man doing something which wasn't right. The sooner it's sorted, the better we'll be: looking forward to things as they were.

Pushing back the old door creates an arc of dust; and there it sits once more: your universe at dusk. Stepping in the half-light on boards you used to own, you know it isn't right to call this house your home. Searching through the toy box unearths so many things that hold you in their bones: yo-yo like a coiled snake, a telephone that rings your teddy bear awake, spinning tops and spark guns - that emery and flint! Smiling at your loved ones reveals the very end those memories postpone.

Foolish folk evoking Hitler should try harder to belittle 'er. Thank your lucky stars that you   don't wake up in Timbuktu, cry for cameras in Korea, live in fear of the Shabiha. Things are bad? Half-empty glass? Pull that head right out that arse!  

It's breaking down and spilling out - crazed arms, and fingers clutching to hold it guide it stop the diffusion of the sleepless. Chemicals beguile  like brushstrokes on a print, bring a dullness so profound it curls up and settles down like it owns the place. And maybe it does because anger won't set. With one eye half open through its dog mouth: "You've had the quick and the keen. Get used to me."

It's breaking open, spilling out, arms and fingers crazed to hold it direct it stop the diffusion of the sleepless. Chemical sleep is all of a piece - brushstrokes on a print. Dullness slinks around and lies down like it owns the place; in some ways it does because anger won't set. With one eye half open through its dog mouth: "You've had the sharp and the keen. Get used to me."