I look up the high rise see nothing but blue skies, two in the morning, the tin man running, James Joyce on the desk, his palatable Dubliners eaten by Ulysses, some Shakespearean malady cross infected by Brian Rix and Marty Mulligan.
Take to the bed then? Take vitamin C , take omega oil to be alpha male, feed yourself to the lions, the paeans of retrospective inordinate taste and standards, the censorship bored, the gang of four or five or six, and the cronies stirring the stirabout.
What can we do but nothing. Or something. Live before die. Take a trip around the English countryside, ride a shopping trolley up the Falls Road, paint banners of discontent over railway bridges to be ignored by the commuter belt commuters. We can always wish for more, we can always hope for more , but can we make it happen? This could be the last dance, this could be the answer, let's hope for the right question. A safety net, a Lamborghini Aventador, Cristal, Crystal Meth, Benzedrine, sodium lit , halogen bright, xenons blaze down the dark highway, snatch third, peddle down, bright lights are missing the two lane black top, the high regard, the selfish resemblance of rising tides the few, the many, being good enough, the last, the forgotten.