The driven narrative behind a paper curtain is revealed. And it's an illusion, not a memory; a painting, not a photograph. Your precious shard of lost time, fragmented to an uneven image and an e-bow sound. That eternal summer holiday kind of day, in a place familiar in its strangeness... the hours rarely outstaying a clocked welcome. A type of evening where tea-time came and went after the main BBC news; your mum shouting after you to head for home after next goal the winner. The arrogant sun beat down on our swollen hamstrings and all we had for weak shelter was that warm-to-the-fizz can of Dr. Pepper (aye, you collected the ring pulls, and a couple of quid, for a home-printed quality T-shirt). And, especially, do you remember the tall grasses we cut our staggered youth through; those guarding fence posts with erect, curly heads and unsteady, drunken feet? They nearly outgrew us, back then, but we steamrolled through them anyway, sweaty hands and diceman fingers dragging for the feeling of what had passed us by in missed chances. We ran and we ran, in forward motions, and circles, not daring to look behind us; those plaintive songs in our hearts and our heads, with thoughts of a stray kiss smacking our eager lips and capturing our souls. The anticipation, as ever, was never matched by the reality. Until now. A sting and a kick; this land is surely ours, boys.
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The Chameleons - 'One flesh' (4.29)
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Home is where the heart is, they say / And it means playing this on repeat, basically.
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