A Blind Lover, Don't Know

A Man In A Desert Can Hold Absence In His Cupped Hands, Knowing It Is Something That Feeds Him More Than Water.

There's Always Been Anger In The Making Of Music Or Literature Or Dance.

Everyone Has To Scratch On Walls Somewhere Or They Go Crazy

Before The Real City Could Be Seen It Had To Be Imagined, The Way Rumours And Tall Tales Were A Kind Of Charting.

What Began It All Was The Bright Bone Of A Dream I Could Hardly Hold Onto.