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I have a simple life that I is dramatised in my own head. Some say I am Bi=Polar, but I think I am susceptible to the plague currrently sweeping the nation with an illness called -Unable to make a buck!- Now in my mumbling mind I am driven to drival and dribble as ages timeline “final stage of the three staged rocket” of life takes a hold firing the future me into ever smaller timecycles finding time going ever quicker until I expire. Old dreams waisted and forever bannished to oblivion in some scrabbling way of desire to be recognised. And that is why I feel that I will probably disapear up my self in the end.