The lamenting strain...(Ruined by the needles of Angel street).

Waiting and gathering. A lamenting strain - the hope of nothings - a woe begotten cause with no ends or sights to view- just strain-packed burns of nervous fancy. I hurt and doubt and sink in equal view, and think to nothing beyond the fog of one-eyed, blind-eyed grey. Writing the floor boards, in days that fly and cratch like birds to graves. To London and back. Past friends, through Spain, with barely a mention registered. This wait on nothing; a gathering in the dwindle pause. Thus scrapes the hurting lines. MB