the awakening

In a way, I'm a hideous incarnation of Sleeping Beauty, except I'm far from beautiful. There I was in peaceful hibernation, slumbering away my final few years (9 years 6 months 4 weeks 2 days to go) when I was kissed by a prince and I woke up.
The prince is a poet. He wrote a poem titled "Where the Hell is Shafi Hadi?" a question I've been asking myself for years, and I was interested to discover that I'm not alone in raising pointless queries.
The saxophonist I seek doesn't owe me money (nobody does - James, I exonerate you) and I have nothing to gain by knowing the answer other than the satisfaction of finding an answer to a bugging-me-riddle: how can a genius disappear without trace?
Bloody Prince Sean Murphy. But for stumbling across his poetry I'd still be resting uninspired but content in my unconscious-ignorance. Now I've shifted into consciousness I'm aware of lacunae in my bank of knowledge and I need to address past errors of omission and commission to try to rectify them.
Now, therefore, I'm wide awake; I can't get back to sleep again because my mind is full of pleasurable nothingness being crowded out by trivial things. So I might as well use my remaining time to pick up where I left off a few years ago and start posting again. I know I shan't offend or bore anyone because nobody reads my fucking stuff anyway. But it keeps me occupied as the grey cells deteriorate... and I can't quite remember what I wanted to say next.