Hall wanders through as witness to so many middle urban calamities. Fights in pubs, domestic punch ups, cheating, begging, fist jobs, lovers, patsies, scoundrels, embezzlement and songs.
So many songs where Hall goes to sleep praying to the songs in so many keys, words, meaningless words, in meaningless songs which make sense only after he's heard the song 100 more times because he shudders and stops.
Everything means nothing to him and everything to everyone else.
Today Hall lusts for a patient. It's happened before but today is today.
The day I start to write.
A big day because Hall wonders. Is virtue its own reward? Or is it time to push virtue away and punch it again when it leaps forward at his face.
Because virtue is a cunt and Hall is tired.
Tired, foolish today and sad.
Because tonight, when virtue sobs, Hall decides tonight is all.
Tonight's the night.
Tonight's the night.
I start to write.
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Early drafts, ideas and poesy by some bloke.
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This is a personal and not for profit weblog. Except where otherwise noted, this site is licensed under a Creative Commons
License.
This is a personal and not for profit weblog. Except where otherwise noted, this site is licensed under a Creative Commons
License.
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