Thirty-seven today, sound as a bell, apart from my old weakness, and intellectually I have every reason to suspect at the crest of the wave or thereabouts.
Celebrated the awful occasion, as in recent years, quietly at the Winehouse. Not a soul. Sat before the fire with closed eyes, separating the grain from the husks.
Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.