I want to write maybe not a poem but I want to write something. I think that I think to much, or do I? I used to have a plethora of subjects to write about. In a previous life, a life when I was a student and had worthwhile opinions. A life where making music was a thing and not a dead memory. A life where I wasn’t bombarded with absurd thoughts or silly fears of my imminent death. You know, I was dying in a fire last week and yesterday but somehow I survived. I could smell gas last night, I couldn’t move and so death approached, only it didn’t. suicide ideation is not a very pleasant subject, neither is the fact that the U.K government is infested with paedophiles or paedophile protectors. I don’t really know if I really want to die but when you get caught up in how little you are doing and the amount of effort it takes to bundle your way through life the subject does come up. I don’t want to whinge therefore I don’t say much. These are just thoughts.