Night falling on Glasgow all wrong, when it should still be afternoon according to the clock.
Night falling, likewise, on big Jackie, gone too soon like many, but you have to say it was a surprise he lasted that long, never destined to make old bones. I think that knowledge was always with him, Celtic soul brother, dreaming of a Marble City bar.
Here I sit, the city droning by somewhere outside, shadows flickering to the Forbidden Songs of the Dying West.
For money, I live in those shadows, but more things exist in dark places than merely dark deeds.
