As the Doctor indulges in, and dallies with, adrenaline-inducing foes, I do too. It's amazing how one can cling to what's killing you.
It's a freezing and frightening prospect to think that such a figure could be hiding away, in palatial splendour, locked away from the locked-out masses, ordering teens like takeaways.
Does social rank allow such silhouette straddling? What law when you straddle the law itself? Unwritten laws are the most easily overwritten. Ah, but what a tangle of tease, and taunt, tantalise and torture, we weave - so many tiny skeletons, hanging on this ripped cobweb, that still captures, has the gentry in raptures. And the web goes back, and some of its history is torn from time now, torn from time, to be fabled in rhyme.
Here is a song I wrote: Paedophile In The Palace
Thanks for dropping by.
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