Something doesn't feel right tonight. It is as though you felt someone leave the room when you're sitting alone, smoking a cigarette and for once not care how late it is. That you don't have work. But left thinking about someone. And you can hear a violin being played from across the street, and who could be that. You know you've never felt like this. So alone and yet not afraid of the dark. As though all your fears have been trapped in a jar and kept beside you to peek into once in a while. while all the humour and tragedy slips pass by you, and yet you don't even smile.

You're ready for the world now. But the world doesn't accept you. Because something's changed while you weren't listening. When you weren't ready to quite give in. So you slump back into your chair, into your thoughts and all these voices sorround you. Mere gossip about your intricate selfish little life. All your dirty thoughts being played out loud to you. But you aren't afraid, you see, after all what could be so different. It's just a blank piece of web space, you say, no one's going to give quite a fuck about it. Even if it is with what you got to say, not the crap that's uploaded on your twitter and facebook accounts. But something more profound, that voice that's been muffled for so long beneath the coats of nicotine, caffeine and dilapidated self-confidence.

It's like you don't care all of a sudden. It's like you're waiting for a miracle, a trick, a clap ready to get you back on your feet again. A reader's digest article about how you lost your pride in the company of some fine women. But they don't say. They wait for you to hum along, and wait for the next song. Like a poodle strapped to a chair, ready to stroked of some ill-gotten guilt.

And all this for what you ask? Am I making sense now? Am I fighting a cause now. When wars are being fought about for oil. Old temples that no one quite cares about being broken and remembered. When hundred people are dying in a place you'd go for honeymoons, for something that's dabbed with pride, hurt and life. What can you say to these children. This world which isn't meant for you, that it is all so incroguent for you to not only grasp but set it in your own ways.

And hope. What is hope. It's a poem that Kipling or Eliot could've written about. Yes, you see, it doesn't get quite write. The Horror! The Horror! Who sared to sat that, but what did he see? And am I being too cryptic or a little cynical because I haven't been out this week, or got a clue to what this fine dining culture of cretins is all about. But just strapped in this metaphorical chair, caught in a vortex of spite and other's people's opinion, Owhich is so carefully researched and articulates based on the simple assumption and statistics that people want to hear everything, quite all at once.

Yes, yes, so that no one's got an original thought left in their heads. But you want to rise and shine. Be like them and talk like them. When it gets worse, even look like them. But that's all hogwash, like Harry Potter or pansy looking vampires that everyone seems to be after. That they make, because your life was so incomplete otherwise.

Aah, I know you are clever with your words. Now, can you change anything, make people feel something, know something, learn the ways, and then completely obilerate the last chance of a profound human moment. The gods chose not. The people think otherwise. A hung parliament. Let's all cry foul.

There's more to it in these thoughts. It's just that the words aren't right, the song doesn't play the same, the senses are dumbed by human expression. Go ahead and reclaim your life. While I fish another cigarette.