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I go to sleep too late, again, again, my body unable - unwilling - to end the days, to let go of the moments. You whisper quiet pleas into the warm night, trying to wake synapses long slumbering, trying to rouse hopefulness from it glacial grips, but all that comes out is hours of creaky steps across a piano. In my youth I made deals with the devil to forsake all things but the word and now all I have left is piles of paper with scattered stories, all I have left is a head full of poetry and I have forgotten how to tell you I get better, forgotten how to put on the veneer over the madness, in my youth I made deals with the devil and the devil does not forget, the devil always

comes to collect.