A day to go and I feel frustrated. That bit of therapy makes it worse. Like some unhealing wounds. Round in circles do I go. Oh, I long for the wallenstein and a pond full of carp. And seasons for a chin up. For the strange and piqué taste to vanish in shimmering waves of happiness. I must resolve my hate; I realise it’s not good to feel blames fame. Girl give me bread and sweet words.