My temples are grasped with the high ideologies of past references and perhaps even a future tense I've yet learned to speak.

It's a twist of the tongue and a tilt of the lips that I don't understand - the way the curves brace themselves while the wind is forced through a bowing tongue I will not be able to repeat again. Ever.

I once stood on the graveyard of wisdom and I realised that many people doubt it's existence- that once something has achieved status and recognition it is suddenly immortalized and will be remembered until the name has rubbed away from the stone by weather, by charcoal tracings and fingertips running over the craving of essence.

How monumental, how indifferent and relevant. Why not drink kirsch and stand in the rain, let that sickly sweet smell of cherry and the harsh taste drive away the rum from earlier that day.

I am parched; from this fever and the stance I still fail to see.

I walked down the heavy road today and was stopped several times to be asked pointless and dull questions.

I am not famous. I am nothing new nor intangible nor higher than anyone else.

I am, or was, simply recognised for my vocals and my lectures which where not written on paper - rather they were spoken with fingers trembling in a heated fist with eyes clasped shut to envision the point before sleep when everything seems to be so profound I am finally able to reach the words to explain the process.

Sometimes I feel as if I am another being - it's clichéd and true. I don't recognise myself, so I stand behind a veil of creativity and complexities that swirl as if in tatters around my neck. A scarf of the most outré sort.

This night, like any other - while the wind wrecks havoc and I stand on pointed toe, I'll swear to myself to try once again; yet I'm not sure I will.

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