I crave white on white and black, but my thoughts race in glorious technicolour, prodding me awake, whipping away the warm blanket of invisibility every time it sears to smother my mind in nothing.

You get mixed messages because I have mixed feelings.

No one survives life.

I am the beast at the end of the rope.

It is myself I have never met whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind

Your hair is an act of God.

I don’t have music, Christ I wish I had music but all I have is words.