These words, gently laid upon this page, amount to my sincere prayer they reach within you, and touch your secret self,

Way up there on that hill of yours; that most hard-won ivory tower. Hiding there behind your perfect guise

Everything he has ever been taught alerts him to avert that dancing f… What is it then that demands he mu… proceed towards his certain fiery… Some deep and ancient voice within

I hide here behind a genuine misbelief that I am special, I am different I and only I

Who of you will follow where I’m bound to go? None that I can see. None that I can name. No-one that I know.

Something whispers, certainly not nothing. A subtle impetus to choose to stir and rise

Within this pilgrim’s soul exists a hungry beggar waif, who can never afford a moment of indifference or distraction. Alert to every aching nuance

These words are crude utensils, with which to touch you, and be touched;

Time wears away at me, like water on a stone, oh, so slowly, but inevitably, drop by drop,

Look out there, see them, boy ? They want yer juice. They’re dry, them circlin’ desert… All they want's yer juice, boy.

Come out, come out, wherever you are. I know you’re in here. You dirty little secret.

This trembling grief is for a long lost soul, a young, guileless child I once knew as me. I truly believed