As a young man I was one that wanted to do nothing but good.  I loved very deeply but never had brains enough to turn away from a fight.

I feel I should be clear; I never started a fight in my life, but I never ran away either.

 

I should have run that time (alone, drunk, not in my own country).

I should have tucked my proverbial tail between my legs and ran my ass out of that situation, but my heals bore into the sidewalk, my hands balling into fists.

 

Reckless little bastard - I fought the four men off, but that mêlée left me with both lungs pierced by knives waiting for death.

Yeah, Stupid American.

 

immedietly after, I WALKED into London’s, St. Mary’s Hospital under my own power, then my lungs collapsed and I died.

Nothing scary, No pain.  I was perfectly OK with that.

 

But the doctors had the nerve to bring my back…

 

MY GOD THE PAIN.

 

And the confusion. The guilt.

NO ONE knows how I survived.  NO ONE knows why I survived.

 

So with my twisted brain trying to come to grips with this, I wrote ‘In Fear of Heaven’.

 

– GO FIGURE.