Well I'm standing at the edge of the water and this looks like the turning of the tide and everyone around me's getting older, but no one asks why.
Time just moves in dribs and drabs and moments impossible to catch or categorise My friends they are all dreamers and showmen, whilst I'm just good at telling lies.
Well yes I've got my dreams I've got my visions But life hasn't turned out quite the way I planned so I sit here small cuts and incisions in the sand
I'm bored of writing all these evaluations of the things that other people did. It should go without saying, but literature means nothing if you've never really lived.
And I'm tired of giving up everything I love and I'm not sure I really like the person I've become I was confusing knowledge with the smell of old stone But t everything that ever counted I learnt on my own.
How am I meant to know where I'm going, when I barely even know where I am? All my cuts and all my bruises they are showing and I'm holding out my hands
But maybe one day I'll hit the road and I'll realise that Kerouac was right: That the people who'll teach you the most in this world are the ones that burn, burn, burn, like roman candles, in the night.