These poems represent the musings of a man: an intelligent man, a world traveler, a man in his fifties going slightly mad from booze and grief and a perception of a world in a headlong rush to a future he does not understand and has no wish to. We know him only as "Tweed." But we're never sure whether he is speaking of Tweed himself, or Tweed as alter ego, and we see his world, perhaps our world, through his eyes. We wander with him in the past, sometimes in the present, and very rarely in the future. For him, there is no future, only the daily task of living it through, and this collection is a journey with him.