Lying stark naked on a rug in the middle of a steamy suburban night, all alone, slowly sinking into loneliness and despair. Buckley's few years drown and the Zen Buddhist poet hasn't shown around for some time. No, I won't hear this one live, ever.
Roll on, here I am almost ten years later and so is he, the troubadour, the minstrel, the bard, kneeling in front of the adoring audience.
It's just a vague breath of bygone days, quickly disappearing in gourmet food and wine of the V.I.P. sector. I'll have more chocolate fondue, she giggles, and I'm leaving my foolish thoughts to vanish.
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