It's a sorry state of affairs when
the only way I can feel inspired, have
the words flash before my eyes is
a lugubrious struggle beneath the sheets, just
me, myself and memories that fleet of
times when she or they did
this or that and
nothing mattered and
everything was perfect and
everything was pure and
the moments lasted and
hung in my mind like a tired re-run of 'Friends', where
I am Gunther and laughter, unlike inspiration, never ends.
