back in the real world the paths retain uncertainty of destination, a faded centre dwindling in each days refrain...torn newpapers headline gutters and hedges with old news, with the repetition of familiarity in conservative times...it's an austere place this illusion, where words dismay in predation and subversion...it's a strange kind of freedom which seems to encourage you to build your own chains, a twisted servitude and a faithless congregation...