A lover's complaint

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It's somewhat akin to a lover's complaint, a broken record that I dust off and play, a flawed and incongruous dream. It's the love/hate/love thing that I've always had for rock'n'roll lyrics. And sitting here, at 4 AM, it's paid me a visit, again. So hold me closer, tiny dancer, sit me up, help me find the vein. Or maybe just let me sleep, again...

Uncertainty

People do it all the time. Some even manage to make money at it. What they do is, they go back. They find new life in what they've written in the past. So now I'm wondering if there's any way that I can do that.

I guess I'm worried that I may have lost the thread, the voice, that piece of the soul, that was the vessel of whatever truth there was in it. The thing that made it worth going there in the first place. Because, after all, my present life has nothing like that.

At the start of such an enterprise, all we really know is that the truth comes wrapped in this uncertainty. Which is, when seen through cynic's eyes, the fabric of lies that lets us tolerate the present...