"What are you doing sir?"
"No, it's OK, my friend is a post-man."

I can't give up.

The fighting. The sardonic one-liners. Do we need to see that? Is that all there is? Not from my heroes, my heroins. I still care. Always did, always will. You rule, not them.

OK, so you can't see me because you have to be the hostess at this new Gay Indie Cabaret night. In a club, in someone's house. In a wig, that's like a cartoon of your real hair. And fishnets, and shorts. Because you want to see Thee Moths.

I only know all this because the 'club' is next door to the green house I'm living in.

The only thing that really bothers me is that your excitement about it all is totally real, I don't think you're doing it to wind me up. Standing outside, where you left me, hours ago, I know that the club is totally empty. Even the acts haven't turned up. And I bet you're still having some kind of a great time.

I'm taking it so personally that I can't even fly away.

"Step-up. Time to step-up. These things used to mean something."