So I've been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride. I just sit and watch the people there. And they remind me of wind up cars in motion. The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.

Will my number come up eventually? Like Love's some kind of lottery, where you scratch and see what's underneath. It's 'Sorry', just one cherry, or 'Play Again…

Just then my knees give under me, my head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see it's not them, but me, who's lost my self identity.

Your eyes are poor. You're blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me. I'm a waste of breath, of space, of time.

Unchecked, the tourist will climb over the fence and come right into your house to take pictures of you in your habitat. Cities mindful of tourists have built …

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.

I saw rich beggars and poor beggars, proud beggars and humble beggars, fat beggars and thin beggars, healthy beggars and sick beggars, whole beggars and crippl…