Here I go again, running around myself, begging for scraps from my own plate. An empty plate. I’ve got exactly four days before my entire world packs it’s suitcase and moves away from me. This could end badly, I better pack up too. Because if I can’t follow, I die here. I’ve got the urge to get got. Got to get out, go for good, go for broke, go for gold. It’s Ten O’Clock, Twelve O’Clock, Stop the clock, stomp the clock. Broke as Jesus himself. Never like a horse though, never. I’ve got The Grinch and he’s got a grip around my ribs, pulling softly, yet endlessly. Like a treadmill. I feel… lucid. And hungry