sometimes, when you're lying in bed, past midnight silent, pale streetlight glow across your wall, in that oystershell moment you know that you're lost. ,in that oystershell moment, you know that you've lost - that there isn't a story left to write, a tale left to tell - and the irrationally speeding fan overhead chills you to the bone - december rages nick drake frozen seething air icicles frosting your eyes closed - and you reach for the blanket, cover yourself in its warmth, be entranced by its fireplace glow, hiding, yet not really wanting to - and all of a sudden you're seven years old again - you say an affectionate good night to the world, and go away till the morning where there's no one to heed or call - and this, maryjane of the song, this one more december night among the many you have and shall live through, somehow or the other absent-mindedly or perhaps even with the scent of mild neurosis pass by, this then, is the only immortality you and i may share.