It hurts, it hurts, it hurts
...having nothing much to do, explore the ceiling. It doesnít really matter where you are or where youíll be. It doesnít. And the half tone of grey or white of the ceiling you will be looking at tomorrow, for there will be spiders on the corner.
A Summer As Imaginary Local Heroes (part two)
It would have been fine for a seaside holiday park. But not for a small town, not for the countryside, not for the dusty memories of a lake resort once fashionable in the nineteenth century or so.
Sharing the supreme weight with ONQ
Playing music makes me a chess player. Composing music requires the same logic and mathematic principles involved in chessplay.
The past, present and a few trips to Space: An interview with Morose
That was the ontological motivation of the songs: to freeze myself, to take a polaroid of THAT ME in THAT particular moment. I think of my music as a sort of X-ray photography.
A Summer As Imaginary Local Heroes (part three)
The day was passed slowly broken by escape pauses, the length of a cigarette, in the courtyard. The walk beneath the pines marked the border between where we were living and an outer world.
A Summer As Imaginary Local Heroes
You need love to be an imaginary local hero. It is not enough to burst your best-kept-hidden ego up by playing the guitar in a rockíníroll band. Kind of playing. Kind of guitar. Kind of band. Kind of Summer infatuation.