You, me and the sky beneath our feet. You and I and the damp bed sheets that just get in the way of what we’ve been meaning to say for so long now. If it doesn’t involve madness and a sense of unbecoming, it’s not worth it. If it doesn’t leave us not knowing who we are, then there’s no point. We piss on opulence much the same as we piss on the memory of those who didn’t have it in them to stay true to their words. Anyone can spout shit about beauty and truth, but so many leave it behind when they realise the quest for such things will see them cast adrift and humiliated by all those who never had the guts to do things differently. When I first saw you, I knew you were the moonlight that would show me the way. When we first spoke, I could see that you were never going to leave me, and you haven’t, because here I am all these years later with you on my mind when there are so many others that had the chance to replace you, and they never came close. In the lonely hours when the rest are sleeping, I write my words and drink my beer and when the music gets under my skin, I can taste the beauty of the secrets we shared and of those that are waiting for us on the outskirts of this damned little town populated by so many damned little people. But if they want to be blind, then let them. Their samey demises are of no concern to us whatsoever, and nor are their minor triumphs that hold as much meaning as a fart in a paper bag. A triumph for us is to keep our heads held high even when we’re drowned. It’s to keep breathing even though the wind has been kicked out of us after so many relentless defeats. Yeah we’ve got cracked ribs and yeah our faces have been pushed in the dirt, but as we hold onto each other as the wind stirs up and the rain begins to fall, there’s nothing that comes close to what we have in each other’s arms. Cocooned from harm, we stay alive when the rest want us respectable and dead. And this just won’t do at all.