I cannot leave without a penny in my pocket, I am setting out on a journey, but if I accept the offers, I would be obliged to turn back. This might be the greatest thing for me, greater than a magazine or a funk beauty dream, just a little anonymity. Perhaps someday, if all is sadly done then looking back I will say “if only I had turned back, instead of going on”. Everybody lies, in some cases, I suppose people do blurt the madding truth, but other times most people are incapable of smearing the reality in the weakly outlined weeps of the day. Yet I, having bounced out before I could creep in, resent the sacred merriment of the helpful pathway where you admit to all those who handed you up and up, up in flames or anthemic Irish days. I’ll get my day simultaneously as I fulfill my hunger for fame and food, hope and hymns. What’s tougher than the aftermath, who’s wickeder and mean then the bitter end of luck and love, yet we persist through the feelings, our feelings. And in consequence, I must weave a sequence of plans to purchase me the didactic hand of mind, heart and the will. While the barriers are many, too many, to overcome maybe I could find a cove in the walls and jump while the prisoners watch in the gaze of swinging time. My own attire, a signature look, to heat the light of life, suture the bristles of brushes that failed to hold together the ravings of a kind that would have distributed gold coins, many gold coins. Serious and humorous in the eschewed night of beginning, to push the door back to the walls of the doorway and depart in the company of unavoidable circumstances, and to confront the future in a manner that doesn’t compromise my reliability as a hero. My hands are up hanging, so as to receive from the night, the resistance is in my journal, and then, in consequence, I open the peace and sweetness of my awake footsteps interrupting the said resistance so I may walk on, and I wish I might walk on.