His left hand is my brain...

Oh, I was writing something about me whispering filth into your mother's ears and about poisoning the sugar-plumb'ed dreams of your offspring - but then I stopped.

When one has to question or slow down when writing about nothing - then one has lost the game that could never've been won.

The distant sirens are now becoming louder. In seconds, they'll completely envelop me - I think that I'll catch my rhythm by the time they get here.

Loud. Abrasive. Distracting.

Now.

Here it comes.

I'm listening...and not writing.

And this is what we get tonight.

Me, writing about one moment right now - as opposed to all of the other stuff...