I suppose I should probably say a few things about myself.

I'm twenty-one years old. Writing is my hobby but I want nothing more than to 'make it' as a legitimate author. I'm still young and naive enough to dream that there's a place for me in the world. I'm currently at university, spending my time editing a rather long medieval book describing the 'art and craft' in dying well. It was written when people were far more intimate with death. I live on an isolated island at the bottom of the world. Less than two hundred years ago, every Englishman knew each other by name. Now, there's far too many of us and we're trying desperately to save what little wildlife we haven't killed yet. I live on a hill that overlooks the capital city. I can see parliament and the airport and the docks all at once, and if you stretch out far enough, you can almost hold the city in your arms.

Old hope, got stuck in your throat
Wound its way round your neck, and caused you to choke
That old hope, made of rope,
Held you tight as the chair legs broke

When they found you hanging in the wood
You said, "At least, now, I don't have to be kind or good,
I'll be cruel, and I'll be obscene,
Tear out my tongue, 'cause I've been redeemed"

Save my blushes for the grave,
No shy glance, no coy restraint,
And I won't hang my head, and I won't repent,
Won't face the wall and count to ten

Five, six, seven, eight, nine... ten

Well they tore you down, and they tore out your tongue,
And they made you kneel for all the things that you done
But you wouldn't cry, and you wouldn't beg,
You just grinned, and tore out your teeth instead

I don't have to sit down and behave
Because darling, I've been saved

- Ye Old Hope