In the snow they keep the lights on and everything seems brighter. The dingy streets and dodgy alleys don't seem so very frightening.
But then I look hard and I look deep into this ever lasting white, and come to see, in this bright might, sprees an unforgiving night.
And here I stop and think 'I've stooped so low to repeat this cheap vocabulary' and say 'what have I done to reach here, now? What must you think of me?'
So through this book I've written you, be it just a few pages long, I see you look right back at me open-mouthed at all that's wrong.
The meter's off and rhyme is weird, and I don't know if to read this verse as prose or poetry or simply just a creed
of things all done and past and bored and simply without need of further contemplation or a warning: please take heed.