A rebel without a clue.

Retracing my mind's path over the last couple of months I find it is locked on a collision course with thoughts of a previous fool. Luckily I redeemed it for my own sake in time over the course of an autumnal weekend hidden. Lingering on Saturday with a broken hangover and retiring early from crowded threatening Leeds City Centre, after a none ideal trip via hybrid shaking silver bus, I left the world beyond the window pane (I so recently serenaded) to another grey gun metal zero. It is now a question of reform and order again otherwise I will be fighting my twisted hand for the pistol I meant to drop.

October rain appalls against the window pane and I listen in the half light to another era - Let Me Roll It, Paul McCartney and Wings, Band On The Run 1973 - PAS 10007 Stereo (Apple). Autumn came at us without warning on Wednesday and it is drawing all the nights in (Summer is a grayed 2B hatched marble history). Drifts of a leafy death which clog our veins in dark tannins - we need to break away from this cloud drugged afternoon drooping eyelids and dribbling nose. We didn't want this again! We are tired as tyres spin hopeless against the ungrateful. Something beyond our understanding deadens, clustered and draining away want or need; grasping, out at withered hands, and gasping, whispering dreadful breathes. Today is Sunday and resistance to an alcohol fueled pyre is all my body feels before the brief undermined sunset occurs.