I never write anything even remotely sentimental. Tonight I am considerably lonely. Concerningly lonely. Almost unconqueringly lonely. I keep day dreaming of a beautiful flat in a beautiful part of Victorian London, with charismatic windows, sharp chandeliers and real dedo rails which have had a considerable amount of time spent carving them.

This is not my best, I know. I'm beginning to get the bug which makes every promising line sound stupid. I am embarrased about my sentimental flaw tonight, and my barrier breakdown.

The church bell rang a thousand times
It shook the Walls in which you write,
Brogues clicked on a burnt out wooden floor
Clear the path to the window, inspired some more

Swab the dye in your hair from your poetic face
A chiffon blouse tied with the richest lace,
It seems the sun rises up to light your street alone
Pouring through that window, a fresher kind of heat to adone

Take your hat from the closet, from the nostalgic yesterday
Digest the smell of spring, the shred of optimism that came
Grab a pen and grab a paper, there's a new world to unfold,
And when no longer busy, I've a hand that's yours to hold