Fear is a dry headache and box cello strings being bowed upon your guts. A dry drunk feeling that you’ve lost the footrace so now the rough stuff has come. Why? You ask yourself, what have I done? The loneliest feeling in the world that you’ve let everyone else in the world down with a liberal dose of so now where is there left to run? Toes over the cliff deep down wanting to let it all fly. An empty hand reaching out into empty space in a cold indifferent dry wind. Floating past an inch away from the last handhold. A crowd waiting at a bus stop livid that you might think to hoist yourself up first. That long short wait onstage waiting for the headsman. So you run, run, run into that lonely corridor of one. Don’t bother calling out because no one will listen. So . . . It’s time to live a lie.