Whatever People Think I Am Or Say

You Should Think About Nobody And Go Your Own Way, Not On A Course Marked Out For You By People Holding Mugs Of Water And Bottles Of Iodine In Case You Fall And Cut Yourself So That They Can Pick You Up - Even If You Want To Stay Where You Are - And Get You Moving Again.

Walking The Streets On Winter Nights Kept Him Warm, Despite The Cold Nocturnal Passions Of Uprising Winds. His Footsteps Led Between Trade-marked Houses, Two Up And Two Down, With Digital Chimneys Like Pigs' Tits On The Rooftops Sending Up Heat And Smoke Into The Cold Trough Of A Windy Sky. Stars Hid Like Snipers, Taking Aim Now And Again When Clouds Gave Them A Loophole. Winter Was An Easy Time For Him To Hide His Secrets, For Each Dark Street Patted His Shoulder And Became A Friend, And The Gaseous Eye Of Each Lamp Glowed Unwinking As He Passed.

It's A Treat Being A Runner, Out In The World By Yourself With Not A Soul To Make You Bad-tempered Or Tell You What To Do.

Government Wars Aren't My Wars; They've Got Nowt To Do With Me, Because My Own War's All That I'll Ever Be Bothered About.

The Art Of Writing Is To Explain The Complications Of The Human Soul With The Simplicity That Can Be Universally Understood.