"...I have mocassins on my feet and a|
pager in my pocket, tattered jeans and a
curious haircut, and I fling myself into
the air to the tune of half-forgotton
bands between the green walls of a little
room so far from you it could take
your breath away, if you had breath to
give. And as the british lyrics pelt
these walls and music shakes the floor
beneath me, I write this particular
paragraph in my mind and recode the
shall use when Ian Curtis stops singing
and this music spirals into silence..."
Some people ask how these pages came to be.
The truth, predictably, is stranger than everything. Construction
The truth, predictably, is stranger than everything.