The mists of time they close in around my home on the glen.
I have not seen a soul now in eight months and twelve days.
The grocer delivers my tins and my milk, but I go to the outhouse when he clops up the drive.
My novel lies uncompleten, sploon in many rooms.
Where is my hero?
Droomer despair, droomer despair.

Talk is a spaghetti of confusation, a mungle of sounds that I once called words.
I am my own company, but I no longer make sense.
I hear the weevils in the night.
They come to the foot of my bed, whistling and curding.
But they don't come in.
I am alone.

On Tuesday I caught a beetle in my cup.
I gave him a biscuit, but he would not talk to me.
Night and day, night and day, still no word strings come.
A pigeon came to taunt me about the pants on the line.
The mists of time they close in around my home on the glen.