All the planets and all the stars that form the constellations in our hearts are never far from colliding, and amidst these hidden collisions, there are Christmas ghosts that haunt and taunt and the halos of those that skip and dance on the corner of your street waiting for you to join them shining like a lighthouse in the back of your mind. You want them to quit it and leave you in peace, but with peace comes the extinction of thought and the closing of doors while drunk and unsteady on the wooden hill that leads to Bedfordshire. Movies play and faces change. The body ignites the soul and then age comes and kicks it to the ground. Like that video, y’know, the one of those Russian tramps being beaten to death in the woods. The one you would always touch yourself to when you were going through one of your moods. Those black moods. All void of colour and sound so that their absence made existing as unbearable as the thought of not existing. What a ludicrous mess. What a mess. Half-way between the day, I close my eyes and picture you wearing black stockings. Those legs, they cross and uncross, and in the time it takes me to lick my lips, the world slips into a void and all that’s left as my body comes apart is the hypnotising back and forth motion of each leg leading me to a place where love shines baby blue and the stars burn like winter suns reflecting on frozen lakes. And those eyes, how they glimmer and shift from emeralds to chestnut brown as your upper lip curls and your grin widens in anticipation of what follows. Those sweet little eyes, how they circle my head like flying birds in some kinda cartoon. Maybe Tom & Jerry. Yeah, Tom & Jerry. And as I’m chasing you and wishing so much to bash your brains in to rid myself of your mystic ways, I need you more than I care to admit, because without your devilry, what’s there to do but be sensible and count the dust?