Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition.
Four blocks up, eight blocks down I need somebody who can tell directions I don’t like this part of town It is bloated with intersections
I need some morals to belive in Something to tell my kids when they´re 18 I need some standard I can follow Manners to suit me when I´m older I need something wise