Squealer

Dear Diary,

She threatened me with judiciary action. Aye. Just like the last time - I've 'owt to hide but the truth. Sanity check. Honesty. I hath n'owt to fear. Mine own mortality perhaps, but not she, the hell-cat. Nay. The morrow bodes a gig, street side, at the rate of a pound a minute. Anarchy. The road. Flute-player, not a boyfriend in sight, save me, single, no-one, nothing. Aye. Silly girls. Summertime. Learning the manuscript: not a bunch of words, lines, like some amateur actor: nay, the score, the notes, notation, a musicianship thang. Not tab', but the actual notes, the score, actual music. Professional class. Decent musicians, listeners.

So anyway, the sun shines, and Maxy Waxy is seriously On the Flex. Who gives a shit about some bint? Not I, that's for sure. The sun shines too bright for me to give a fcuk about what anyone thinks, besides mine on conscience. Harassing birds is not habit-forming, just as objectivity is not tantermount to slander. If truth and objectivity, (facts) be a crime then lock me up forever and a day. "In peace, nothing so much becomes a man as modest, stillness, and humility." (Shakespeare, Henry V)

Alas, I, I walk in objective impartiality. No fags, just a drink, now I am dry, out of everythang but coffee. It matters not. Let her call the police, let us see what happens. They'll check the records, see that they have a history of mental health issues, and that I have a clean slate (no record).

I was once done for "drunk and in charge of a bicycle" when I was but sixteen years old, besides that, I've 'owt against me. But why? Because I am a good man. Not a criminal. Forget it baby. All your anger, your stress, just let it go. The truth hurts, but I, with clean conscience, do not hurt at all. I am clean. Honest. An historian.

Maxwell.