The seasons change in the time it takes to write a line or two of questionable poetry. I should know. I’ve seen them change more times than I can recall; written more shit than I care to admit. Hell, I’ve written more shit than all the beer shits I’ve ever shitted out, temples throbbing and knees knocking as the beads of sweat dribble down my prickly chin. Yesterday, it was too hot to do anything. Today, the cold licks my balls and plucks my pubes causing me to grit my teeth. You’d think I’d get used to it by now. That getting older meant knowing how the game’s supposed to be played. I’ve no idea, though. Things stopped making sense years ago. Feelings make me feel, but experience washes over me without sticking around long enough to let me know whether or not it’s real. This could be a dream or I could be sleeping. Illness reminds me that I’m here, but here is only temporary. We’re only ever passing the time until it’s time to take a leap of faith to the stars. Back and forth. To and fro. Midnight trips to Tesco in search of booze to fuel the thirst for whatever it is that stirs this eternal itch.