At times, old insecurities come to the fore, hand in hand with wistful memories of past lovers, loss, death and grief. At other times, I have bitter quarrels with God late into the night about sin, redemption and child-death; and when solace will not come, in despair, I run for shelter to life's true confessional—poetry.
I'm shackled on the Circle Line rereading the same adverts all the time. There are all kinds of people on the train. Many sleep, some stare into space and many more grin like startled fools.