London and his butterflies.

I keep them in a jar, just big enough to hold a few but small enough for my pockets. They keep fluttering, dancing, spinning in the dark. Hey whatever, I got time on my side still, I've a spirit yet to cultivate.

Slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and steady..

Spiders don't scare me anymore. Well, not the little ones. Everyone has their limits, you know. I wonder when the line blurs enough to cross? Regardless, I love those little bastards like I would any bird, cat, dog or fish.

And hippies? Come find me in nirvana.

What the hell am I?

So my dayjob's as a barman, yeah, you could say that.
but I'm a musician, I play guitar and shit for the sake of it. I go busking without putting out a hat.
or am i a writer? 2 blogs, a million songs, poetry coming out of my ears and too many novels half finished..
maybe I'm a philosopher, maybe I'm an artist, maybe I'm a game critic, maybe I'm a political satirist.

You know what? I'm me.

Tomorrow

Sunlight broke over the canopy of a modest woodland. With it came a breath of post-nocturnal air that brushed across the dew, lifting it to a peak where it swirled in an almost everlasting cycle of movement that slowed to a ghostly stillness and shape of a mountain before it came cascading minutely back to the surface of the meadow, littering the webs of the sleeping spiders with droplets of moisture so that it would seem to the untrained eye that they themselves still hung above the earth just as thier grand parents did in the heights of the atmosphere.

  Away from that, where the sunlight had creeped across the surface of earth, to find its way to a garden where it descended the tall hedges, snuck over a lake of grass and leapt a bush to the foot of a deck chair, whereupon it gently roused the habitant from a cold and restless fatigue.

His eyes open, he saw a sky so blue. So clear, that he scarcely believed it the same sky he had witnessed for so many years. His eyes closed, then opened, then closed once more. He took a breath and exhaled slowly. He imagined his breath rising like a stream of vapour, culminating into a small but elegant nimbus that, once disconnected from him, rose into the sky like a balloon to hang in the atmosphere. A single puff of blank across an entire ocean of blue.