My soul worn down like shoes that have walked too many miles, on dead ends and alleys with no outlet. One way streets of crushed dreams, possibilities of hope for happiness crushed out like cigarettes put out on the bricks. A Catholic self-flogging of my inner sins and outer desires, a bias of choosing the hard road, the road less travelled along with Frost. I have breakfast with Plath, as she checks those cookies in the oven that final time. Cocktails with Sexton at six, as we talk of men and the perfect Red lipstick. After dinner Opium with Lord Byron, as he romances me with silver-tongued whispers of erotica. Tales of random wanderings with Kerouac, as Shelley and I meet in the mind. Invoking demons with Yeats.