Alas, alive,

I woke up this morning and was still alive. Hunger
drove me to the breakfast table, duty drove me to 
work. Experience is pain, thoughts are fear. 
Knowledge renders me immobile. This world is 
not my home. My body is my baggage, but there is
no place to go, except move on; keep ahead of the
dark thoughts. There is no purpose to life. There
is no place to shelter my screaming soul; no arms 
warm and strong enough to smother the fire inside. 
Only a fever makes me horny, only a cold makes me
sad, only exhaustion makes me glad, and only sickness
make me tender. I'm angry, when I'm well. The anger
makes me run; out run my beating heart.
All I ever wanted to do is read folk tales to my
children at bedtime; tales of wisdom, beauty, and
truth. Bring simple content to the next generation.
But it shall not be, this bloodline is destined to
be cut. My eyes betray me, children and animals
fear me; fear the future I bring. The cold future,
the future of the unspoken feelings which clash
deep inside. I'm the lost generation, beyond moral,
beyond dignity, beyond purpose, but with a gaping 
hole inside instead.
Let the inner fire come out and consume the
Establishment. Let's burn Parliament. Or, see 
Richard burn his hands instead, while he tries to 
lit some nice fireworks, on the moors. 

We set off 5pm on Saturday from UMIST with the pick 
up times GMT + 8 hours as we go south. There are 
two different walks to the Cat and Fiddle on the pass
between Buxton and Macclesfield. (easy and very easy)
Both walks involve a bit of ascent as the pub is on 
the highest point, but generally the walks are supposed
to be pleasant evening strolls of two hours to the final 
destination.
Some people would like to bring a torch to lit there way,
but personally I find it easier to see where I'm going
without a torch.

Yours truly, (wanderer-in-the-dark)

Norbert