I travel slow through time, swim currents familiar as the smell of a lover's skin. I am seperate. I cannot conceive how I came to be here. How I relinquished control of my new found future. Events blur in agonising repetition. Words are cast aside, expendable and here is my sorrow. That I was finally able to stand tall and in doing so made myself more the vulnerable. Strength is an illusion, and the sun sets each day on a mirage of Truth. I keep my guitar close. And the album recording date draws nearer. But I thought there was more to all this living. I thought never to hide my battered heart. I thought that to expose the realities was my personal freedom, that I might at least carry some form of Moral Code into the indecipherable chaos of people's hearts. Instead - I simply sit. And the warm red lips that meet mine are that of the grape and nothing more. There has been more hurt, and I allowed it. I dared to dream, and woke not with a start, but with another end. Though I believed the end had come and gone. That the beginning might have arrived. That I had the power to create my own universe. Which is the case, so long as I never involve another. Keep hiding, young man, keep hiding in between the bars of those songs. Stay still, stay quiet. Wait for the Stage, where you may bare your truths. But day by day, you are the tortoise. Do not leave your shell. Draw it close. And the grains of doubt which scratch inside you, will one day be washed away with the cold water of a new life. Focus on a time when you may rebirth yourself Tortoise. For one day soon you will become again Dear and Fox. Your wild wounded heart is close to home. You may once again run these Western Woods with Spring and Hope in your eyes.