So our last breakfast together and our fond farewells to our amazing hosts Jeff and Alison at Yr Hafan. Ending holidays is always sad, but on our journey up to the Wirral from Pembrokeshire, Mike and I. We drove up the magnificent coast of West Wales, through the lovely painted village of Aberaeron.

We climbed out of the ocean, squirmed up the frowning cliffs and jumped into the bushes while big-breasted housewives tried to menace us with red lip-stick botox scowls. With heavy hearts we laughed in packs of threes and fours trying to light the desert on fire before our boredom could stifle us. We crept at the feet of Titans and squeezed our way through dusted mountains and cried under granite boulders while the cold sun crept across a pastel sky.

Life, love, and the pursuit of things lost or longed for. Or maybe its for believers. Or was I the believer? Maybe I just sucked you dry. Or maybe you never believed. The low hung ceiling of. It is what it is. We all play our roles unaware. By the suckers and believers. I hear my mind call your name randomly throughout my day.

Her Rusted Voice, Her Nails. On The Death of Felicity. On The Death of Felicity. Her Rusted Voice, Her Nails. On The Death of Felicity. On The Death of Felicity. A personal grasp for humanity.