An empty cartoon is sitting in my fridge. It's been lurking there on the shelves edge. It's the only thing that is in my fridge. There's a fiver in my wallet, coppers in the couch, maybe some euros from last year I could exchange. I could always pawn another guitar, I guess. But something always stops me at the door. So, I've been taking my coffee black. My home has started to whine like a lost pup. The doors cry open, windows yawn and the taps sing as widows drowning their sorrows. It's a pathetic harmony of melancholy. It's a laughable life if I say so myself; and I do say so myself, and to myself, and I guess for myself too. But, at least, for now, there's still black coffee.