Played five-a-side yesterday, scored a couple, didn't have a heart attack - job done. Today spent some time on poetry, revising, typing up. The hours go and the light fades, now is the time to think of quieter things...
QUIETER! You can't get quieter than that: I need revving up. But it's too late, soon the tiredness wil sweep over me (had a BIG veggie chilli for dinner) and I will reach for the sherry...or the port, failing that a pint of lager shandy. That's living.
Were any of the poems that I typed up good? I'll leave you with one:
how does it feel now
that the world needs your time?
A level of punishment
that doesn’t fit the crime?