Your words on my journey home.

I understand that evenings can pan out this way; like a blotched canvass filled with wells. I continue to stagger, your chemicals now stale in my mouth, carrying my trainers through the blazing morning; pulling splinters from my soles, throwing them to anyone that’sgrateful. Those cherished tit bits of knowledge you filled my head with, whilst dancing your fastidious jig, have at last elapsed, and left me were I should be, Walking blind and segregated; remaining sane. Jon Butcher