Winter, a cold bitch. She often reminds me of what I will eventually become, grey, cold and bitter. This weather prompts me to play slow jamz, usually with my feet curled up for warmth. I ponder what has become of my life, a wilting tree begging for spring to return. Once abundant with leaves now leafless with branches of opportunity severed from the cruel winds of life. No longer a tree, just a stalk, a dead end, a prick often refered to as a dickhead.

The fully hectic dancer - he points to the sky like he will ascend to some kind of greatness. Arms swinging side to side biding their time then unleashing into a cylindrical motion. Leg are usually slightly bent and gives the impression this outlaw has rickets. The face beams with confidence , he glances left to right and validates his authority as no one seems to be in his dance proximity.