Reflecting on his reflection in the glass, O was a little troubled by his growing resemblance to Barry Gibb; progress, perhaps, from the Turin Shroud; certainly, a change in tone, and a slightly better outlook; but the fact remained: he was getting older; old man, look at my life: I'm a lot like you are; sooo much more than twenty four, lumbering, crabby Neil, and so much more for you too; so much more for you [ ... ] Time taps and beckons from the wings; time now to join the Elders, trapped in time and in space; in the fire's cheerless glow, another flaxen poll, muses on the old, worn out, forgotten themes, doomed to simply stayin' alive, more Branson than Bronson, in yesterday's Levis; or brooding on the bus - and remember, only losers take the bus - jealous of the narrow waist, the flat stomach, and the sinewy strength of the young man's arm in front; and the possibilities; you'll meet a stranger some night; and it makes me sad [ ... ] like the vegetarian cafe where he would sit and listen to the rattle of the pots and the prattle of the Eloi; looking at the bright eyes, the bright lives he hadn't won ; listen to Tony, fabulous - let's 'ave a look at what you would've won [ ... ] David gone, and no hand to hold; Niamh off somewhere, afraid to return; fearful of the pitchforks and the burning, and the sawn-off shocks of cold calculation; he is alone, and so much less than wonderful; so much less than wonderful; unbearably so [ ... ] sore thumb surgeon among butchers threads delicate needle pricks against the big, stupid din of the bacon slicer, as giant blades rotate, and legs give way, slide sideways, as cows collapse under dumb electric prods, wielded by slavering, foaming giant steel trotters; dawbed fraud, and fears the falling fat pig fists on his poor head; fumbling unfamiliar tools, botches bumbling fool, like Baudelaire's bird stumbles on deck; cramped, damp, tattered streaks of grey, where once proud pinions rose pure white, and banked on cool Olympian streams [ ... ] Oh sea-girl sister, sleek seafarer, with stately brow, stands forward at the darting prow; my faerie queen, let's dream sweet, blissful dreams of the slim, white hand of the king's only daughter, of the elvish harps of the western lands, of the wild hunt, and the thumping chase over heavy going, hedges and briars, when we thought we heard the tiny horses laugh [ ... ]
