ABSTRACT
Although I had begun at times to feel suicidal, fear prevented me from killing myself. Instead, I killed time. My movements grew sluggish. I no longer had anywhere to go, so could go anywhere I liked. I ambled to The Woods, lay in the grass or wandered the streets for hours to delay my arrival at the house. I would summon up a vision of rest, of lying peacefully, quietly, perfectly still; no people, no noise, no sound, not even breathing, just the caress of cool, fresh air, a pastel sky and silence. Sometimes, a lullaby I had heard my father sing to Patricia after coming back from the pub, drifted in the breeze: We're poor little lambs who have lost our way, Baa Baa Baa, We're little black sheep who have gone astray Baa Baa Baa. 42 Gentlemen songsters off on a spree doomed rom here to eternity Lord, have mercy on such as we, Baa Baa Baa.
