as the blip of the machine rhythmically counts down like the clock on a bomb I sit and write down my thoughts my doubts my love I write you a letter and put it down on the little metal topped cabinet as if the words will flow down into the little tubes that lance your skin but i am not down i am full of hope that when they trolley you down to the cold clean theatre the masked men that look down at your lovely face will see the answer and the grace as they lift you up and pull you through and return you to me, my love, my love