oxford street where the junk is cheap, morning sun baking the tar, sticky ambient chaos and residual heat closing in, i'm wandering past the sex emporium, drinking coffee on the run, my moon powered zap gun is depleted, gazing at the people who pass me by indifferent to my purpose, a silent knight on a quest, in a kingdom of tears, a man with a mission, depleted of magicks, lost for words, world weary and heavy wearing a fashionable hat looking for his maiden but only finding chimeras, taming the dragons, redistributing karma and healing old wounds. he took a hit, a big one, it damaged his aura and fucked up his code, he's in need of repair and there's only one witch in the kingdom who can fix him. 
she waves her crystal wand, opens a portal, rips out the fucking glitches and messy configurations that infect and corrupt, ah it feels good but any feeling good is short lived for there's no gain without pain, every knight without a day knows that. truth hurts, illusion and delusion have me on hold, i have to crack open my own head and let it leak away. thank you wendy for at least being a lighthouse in a game of storms.