The builder wouldn't touch it, not gas. He shook his head, suggesting that behind there nothing would be right. You closed the door on him and with your tools, began. Swivelling the gas fire

You'd be amazed, you tell the man you're loading a bed frame in the car tilting wood slats, sliding sides between the seats. Seats like shoulders the head rests, heads. The places I've been

Someone invites you, a drink their house for seven and you take it there'll be cocktails, a tray with olives - not your thing but a dip for the pits, Mexican ware.

Jonathan, you have been my mate Ooh, for about 5 minutes now But it is time to part ways, my friend We must be as the proverbial Twilight boats sailing towards A new dawn, the grit of nostalgia

Andrew Lone is a writer and at the same time a loner. He was once a famous novelist (this is pure fiction) but now lives alone and discusses life.

It was midnight and I was taking a stroll At the end of the dark street the pale moon hangs above like reflection of her soul I saw with my eyes her shadow i'll be with soon

Close your eyes Close your heart Fight the lust, fight the urge to speak For now words are allowed tonight Pale faces, silent souls, crashed hearts Let them be summoned and free me

empty streets, empty soul, empty heart... Night drips on, closing the skies into darkness Clash of hopelessness and lowliness thrusts its jealous sword through me...she was gone...