Trickling from the eavestrough rattling in a gale. Of course you have, you dozy knave. You somnambulance chaser. You dispeptic beaver.

Yet still you dwell somehow in that haunted hollowness of desire you call memory. A gnostalgic gourmandizer and all tied up on the landline telephone at every hour but the one struck by the clock ticking the hours away towards the beyond surrounding your innards. Oh you are a fancier, fecund and wise but robed in tatters.

So, what will it be? Will you find yourself anew on the path to further salvation or lie spurting geosmin from fresh wounds in sacramental confession with the earth.