Memoirs of a Life Unlived

Most of it flows past quite close but it can't bend towards you and you see it like those childhood parades blurred and saturated, too grown up to interest you. There's no need to push too far, what sticks will stick despite you and you'll feel it like those bedroom moments you've regurgitated many times to comfort you. Keep it like a charming ghost - it haunts but doesn't scare you - and you'll watch it fade from rose complexion, those to whom recounted ever less engrossed by you.

I will always have the wayward heart and the tear in my soul which runs along the seam but will not be ripped apart.                                     I will always circumvent the path to the mesh of fine parts which makes you how you are but will not reveal your truth.                                                                            I will always be the purest youth in the midst of the old which darkens every dream with that huge descending roof.

The paper was handed in awkward hush - a wodge folded like an accordion - my smile was ill-judged, but rather than run I floated towards the booth on the rush and unfurled the beast with veneration I'd normally save for a sacred tract; I gawped in awe at variety acts from loner kooks to the Robot Nation. I fixed on my cross in a cloud of fear: Had I moored my boat with Nasty McFoul? Reassured, I folded the inky towel and assumed my place in the Demosphere.