Star Crosst: Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
what time is it and who are you
walked from the cafe to the station.
played my own antic disposition
i see you like a painting hanging on a wall
Once upon a winter afternoon.mp3
Sleeve Notes
You should have asked; I would have given you a piece of my mind, laid it out clearly and without restraint. I am not always cruel or unapproachable-once in a great while, perhaps every twelfth month, I find it within myself to be unexpectedly kind. I carry keys and cards and even a passport to the realm of the dead, metaphorical tools that grant me access where others are refused. I know which direction to take when the path divides in darkness, and I can repair what is broken-that, at least, is what she claimed with quiet confidence. Keep your hands in your pockets and your head bowed, as if anonymity alone could save you. Every time I see you, my reaction is instinctive and unchanging: I only blink, then frown, unable to mask my disapproval. It feels as though we have spent centuries wandering through a silent, overgrown garden, yet only minutes drifting down this stark and echoing hall. You are coming with me, whether you understand it or not, and there is no time left for hesitation, no chance to delay or stall in the slightest. We drive straight through the night, refusing to take any pit stops or answer any calls, cutting ourselves off from distraction and intervention. My hood is pulled low, shadowing my face, turning it into the place where hope quietly goes to die. The air is heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid sting of venomous oil, a mixture of violence and machinery that clings to everything. You may try to remain calm, to act cool and detached, but that composure only fuels my anger, making my blood boil hotter with every measured breath you take. Keep your hands in your pockets and your head down, as if submission could shield you from consequence. Every time my eyes find you, I blink and then I frown, the same weary expression etched deeper across my face. Time stretches and folds: centuries in the garden where nothing seems to change, and only minutes in the corridor where everything happens at once. You are coming with me; the decision has already been made, and there is no room left for delay, no space for second thoughts at all. Wild horses thunder past, their manes flaring outward like the scorching flames of hell, a vision of raw power and chaos barely contained. Do you really believe I need anything you are willing to sell, any bargain you are desperate to strike? Take your place in line and wait, because a reckoning is approaching with relentless certainty. My hands are firmly grasping both levers of doom, and when I pull them, the world you know will shift in ways you cannot control. Keep your hands in your pockets and your head down, because the pattern has repeated too many times to break now. Each time I encounter you, my response is the same: I blink, I frown, and I say nothing more than what is necessary. We have spent what feels like centuries in the garden of possibilities and only minutes in the narrow hall of decisions, yet this is where fate is sealed. You are coming with me-no appeals, no postponements-and there is simply no time remaining to stall at all. Keep your hands buried deep in your pockets and your head lowered to avoid the weight of my gaze. Every time I see you, I blink, and the frown returns as if it never left, a habitual mask of disappointment and resolve. Centuries seem to pass in that silent garden of memories, and only fleeting minutes in the hallway where choices become irreversible. You are coming with me, bound by something older than either of us, and there is no time left to pause, reconsider, or stall at all.
What time is it now, and who exactly are you? Well, yes, I’ll have another drink; I’m in no hurry to leave, and I rather like the view from here. You’re flying to Paris tomorrow, are you? Well, well, well-there’s a certain drama in the way you say it, as if the city were a promise and a threat at the same time. Listen closely to the night; it speaks in low tones through the clink of glasses and distant laughter, and I find its conversation strangely compelling, almost seductive in its quiet insistence. In the casino one night, time seemed to hang by the thinnest of threads, suspended between the pull of the flesh and the cold whisper of eternity, where the living and the almost-dead shared the same air. Crimes of passion and the relentless pursuit of money were quietly adjusting the balance sheet of fate, fixing the score behind closed doors and under dim lights. I was holding someone’s hand, feeling the nervous tension in their grip, and watching the door as though every person who entered might change everything-or end it. He is selling cars to some foreign count, spinning polished stories along with polished chrome, and beneath his easy smile he is worried he might lose her; he is full of doubt that clings to him like smoke. He inhales something to lighten his head and dull his fears, then talks in circles about money, negotiations, and deals done in back rooms, repeating the same phrases as if they could anchor him. In the casino one night, time again swung by a fragile thread, stretched between the urgency of the body and the vast silence of eternity, the realm of the living dead. Crimes of passion and money were still working in tandem, recalibrating destinies and fixing the score, and I was there, holding someone’s hand and keeping my eyes on the door. Trouble is a peculiar country, a strange place made of half-heard whispers and carefully crafted lies, where nothing is quite what it seems. Smiles appear and vanish on a whim, painted on like cheap makeup, and this is a place where honesty quietly goes to die without ceremony. She has a wicked, knowing look in her eyes and she moves with sharp, quick confidence, cutting through the crowd; her tastes are all gilded, measured in gold and glitter, but something about her seems fleeting, and I doubt she will last long in a world that consumes its favorites so quickly. In the casino one night, time again was held by a precarious thread between the demands of desire and the indifferent horizon of eternity, among the living dead who refused to admit their own decay. Crimes of passion and the ruthless logic of money continued to settle their accounts, fixing the score, while I stood there, holding someone’s hand and watching the door like it was my only escape. The hungry men are moving through the room, draped in dark suits and carrying heavy, compromised souls, their eyes scanning for advantage. Above them, the chandeliers blaze with an almost merciless light, pouring brilliance down over the green tables and shadowed corners where darkness quietly unfolds its wings. The stories in this place stack up one on top of another-wins, losses, betrayals-until it all feels like a slow-motion collision, everything crashing together at once. They dance themselves into postures of success and charm, counterfeit to the core, as artificial and brittle as her false eyelash. He leans in, pressing his face so close to mine that I can feel the warmth and tremor of his breath, tinged with alcohol and fear. There appears to be almost nothing separating his life from his death, only a thin membrane of habit and a certain practiced bravado. In a brief moment of clarity, he scrawls a few desperate words on a beer mat, some unfinished confession or plan, and then, just as quickly, he seems to disintegrate into another version of himself-smaller, more tired, as if he has become someone else entirely in a matter of seconds. In the casino one night, time once more swung by a delicate thread, suspended between the insistence of the flesh and the cold permanence of eternity, populated by the living dead who move as if rehearsing their own ghosts. Crimes of passion and of money, intertwined, kept recalculating debts and fixing the score, while I remained where I was, holding someone’s hand and watching the door. The dancers keep on dancing even as the first cock crows at dawn, as if music and motion could outrun the daylight and its judgments. I leave in haste, slipping through the thinning crowd and stepping over bodies-faces slack with exhaustion or intoxication-figures as lost and vulnerable as if they had just been born into a hostile world. By the station, the trains are beginning their morning run, steel and schedules pulling the city into another day, and I stand there for a moment, watching. The truth keeps its distance, staying far out of reach, hovering somewhere beyond the tracks as I fix my eyes on the rising sun. In the casino one night, time had swung by a thread between mortal craving and the endless stretch of eternity, among the living dead who refused to look up. Crimes of passion and money continued their silent arithmetic, fixing the score, while in my memory I am still there, holding someone’s hand and watching the door.
I walked from the café to the station, weaving through the late afternoon crowd, while philosophers on the radio kept banging on about the state of the nation, each opinion louder and more certain than the last. Their endless arguments about politics and decline had started to give me a pounding headache, and I had no pill, no remedy to quiet the noise in my head. Maybe you’d like to join me for a coffee, sit for a while with nothing urgent to do, and just have some time to kill, to let the world slow down for a moment. Last night I saw a rabbit, still and alert, on the damp grass of the park, its ears twitching at every distant sound, a small bright life in the half-dark. And later, in the old graveyard, I saw a sparrowhawk circling above the tilted stones, sharp-eyed and silent, as if it were guarding the dead. I felt as though I’d been given an invitation to think aloud, to let my thoughts wander between life and loss without censoring a single word. Ah, my mum and dad, they’d be kind of proud to know I was paying attention at last, trying to make sense of things instead of rushing past them. Some ways of living are better than others, or so I’ve been told, passed down like advice from people who think they’ve seen it all before. Some people are better too, I guess, kinder or braver or more honest-ha, that’s bold to say out loud, but it feels at least partly true. You can feel the difference when someone genuinely touches your heart, when their presence cuts through the numbness and confusion, and it’s like the soul has suddenly turned on a kickstart, sputtering back into motion after being still for far too long. You’re a kickstart, a kickstart, a kickstart-a jolt that brings me back to life. A kickstart. You’re a kickstart, a kickstart, a kickstart, the reason I remember what it feels like to begin again. There are kings of heaven, or so they seem, walking through the centre of the town, moving with a slow, practiced grace that says they own every inch of pavement. They swagger with money and gold, their designer clothes and polished shoes a kind of real crown in this small, ordinary place. The dazzle of their world gleams up from the street in the form of neon signs, polished cars, and expensive storefronts, while the beggars are watching from the ground, somewhere near our feet, wrapped in old coats and quiet resignation, almost invisible unless you choose to truly see. The trees stand over it all, spreading their bare winter branches like hands searching the sky, twisted fingers reaching out for light. The wind moves through them and they seem to scream and scream across the lands, voicing a kind of ancient grief that no one quite knows how to answer. I was at a funeral a couple of weeks ago, listening to real human crying, and some of the faces that should have been there were missing, people who had already slipped below the surface of the years and into the dark. Afterwards we walked along the sea front and watched the waves rolling in, heavy and relentless, while the wind and the rain beat at us with cold insistence, and we wondered, quietly, who knows who gets saved and who is simply swept away. Later, in a Chinese restaurant that has been there for years, with faded menus and familiar music playing softly in the background, we ate a little and drank just enough to take the edge off our grief, to comfort our tears. The staff moved around us with an easy routine, as if they had seen this scene a thousand times before-people trying to eat around a hole in their lives. And later in the bar, the lights dimmed and the shadows crept over the TV show playing in the corner, swallowing the bright colours and canned laughter. The same shadows slid across the exit signs and across people’s faces, and we sat there wondering where do we go when we go, and what happens to all these ordinary evenings when we’re no longer here to notice them. When we go, what are we supposed to truly think or feel? How do you carry on when the world seems to crack open without warning and nothing seems real anymore, when the familiar becomes strange and hollow? Are you there behind your look and your face, or are you also just trying to hold yourself together with practiced expressions and automatic replies? Is there anyone really listening, anyone truly present behind their face, or are we all drifting past each other like ghosts? And when I look away, do you all still remain as you are, or do you vanish with my attention, becoming stories I tell myself rather than people I actually know? Does this go on and on and on, this endless turning of days and departures-ach, this pain that keeps folding back on itself and never quite resolves. Down by the bay at three in the morning, when the world feels stripped bare, the wind howls and the rain keeps falling, needling against the windows and soaking the empty streets, and heavy are the hearts that wander there. Deep the sorrow goes, sinking under the surface of conversation, and in dreams come strange visions that no one knows how to explain, images that slip away on waking. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows-ahhhh-no one truly knows what comes next or how all this is meant to fit together. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows; we repeat the words like a chant, half fear, half prayer. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows-ahhhh-whether our questions are ever answered, or just left hanging in the cold air. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows; beneath all the noise and certainty, we move through our days on this quiet, unsettling truth. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows-ahhhh-and perhaps that is why every touch, every glance, every small act of kindness matters more than we admit. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows; still we keep walking, talking, loving, grieving. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows-ahhhh-but even in the not knowing, we search for meaning in each other’s faces and in the fragile moments we share. No one knows, no one knows, no one knows, no one knows; and yet, despite it all, we continue.
I played my own antic disposition, performing a kind of deliberate madness, exaggerated and raw. I acted quite mad-truly, wildly mad. I came to you in that state: mad and sad and bad, overwhelmed and unraveling, unable to separate one feeling from the next. Mad and sad and bad, I repeated, like a refrain I could not silence, as if saying it might somehow make sense of it. I came to you with my thoughts tumbling over each other, with my heart in disarray, with my mind frayed to the edge. I came to you with my foot in my mouth, every word wrong-footed, every phrase misplaced, and everything in my life already heading south. It felt as though everything I held together had collapsed at once. I seemed like a broken soul, a vessel cracked down the middle, like a begging bowl held out in trembling hands, asking for understanding, for mercy, for anything at all. I drove and walked, crossing distances without really knowing why, and I waited-for decisions, for judgments, for verdicts that never felt entirely fair. Those judges-real and imagined-all those high minds and lowered eyes, people who indulged in quiet condemnation while pretending to be neutral. They came, one by one and in clusters, to my room, to my private space, and they saw my dream flickering there in the gloom. They studied it as if it were evidence, something to be weighed and measured. They recognized the shape of my guilt, named it, and condemned it without hesitation, as though the matter were simple and final. Ah, they condemned it so thoroughly that any hope of appeal seemed pointless. All the women came and went, passing through my life like shifting seasons-brief encounters, deep connections, unresolved stories. The letters that might have explained everything, or at least something, were drafted but never sent, left in drawers or deleted before they could travel. I forgot to take your message, overlooked it in the chaos of my own confusion, and somewhere along the way I lost direction entirely. By the tower, in that familiar place where I once felt anchored, I walked round and round, tracing the same uncertain circles until I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet, as if I had become untethered from reality itself. So here I am, wherever this is-wherever, wherever-some undefined point after the storm, after the noise, after the unraveling. Now it is quiet. The crowds have dispersed, and the energy of accusation and expectation has slipped away. The market square is packed up, the stalls folded down, the voices silenced, the stage cleared. Everything is done, every argument spent, every choice already made. Yes-what’s done is done. What’s done is done, and I stand here in the aftermath, left only with the echo of what has passed and the slow, steady recognition that there is no turning back.
I see you as a painting hanging on a distant wall, framed in shadows and light, full of those winding, intricate meanings I cannot decipher at all. No, no, I do not know you; I do not understand you in the least. You remain so unfamiliar, so unusual, always just beyond my reach. I do not always want to draw near enough to touch, or at least I tell myself that, though I hardly believe it. Ah, you-there is always too much of you, too much intensity, too much presence, overflowing every quiet corner. You are so remarkably strange, so completely out of range. You are like a swimmer moving silently beneath the surface of deep water, breathing in a world I cannot enter, a kind of goddess’s most mysterious daughter. I would imagine you as a statue in some echoing palace hall, pale and luminous alabaster, unmarked by time or dust. Your stillness would command the room, yet in your silence I would sense entire histories, entire storms. Oh, so very strange, so entirely out of range. There is lightning and thunder, and then the sudden gentleness of rain and spring, and with that change of season come fruit in a basket and the quiet, good things you bring into my life. I would watch you laughing as you eat fresh fruit, the sweetness on your lips, the light in your eyes. I would hover nearby, like Pan with pipes and a lute, trying clumsily to turn what I feel into music. Ah, you are so wonderfully strange, so unpredictably and beautifully out of range. Footsteps at midnight echo along a long, stone hallway, and you are there like a faint ghost-voice on my phone, half-heard, half-imagined. You are like a shiver of the mind, captured for a second in glass, a sharp glint of eternity reminding me that all things will eventually pass. You are strange, and then stranger still, always shifting, always just beyond what I can fully name, persistently and compellingly out of range. I saw you in the meadow among the cattle and the daisy flowers, standing in the open air where no one could possibly confine you to any quiet bower. You moved lightly, almost soundlessly, tiptoeing across the way to the bedroom door, where the lamplight cast silhouettes and shadows that danced across the shimmering floor. And there you were-so beautifully strange, so impossibly, almost divinely, out of range. Rain falls and winter comes with its clear, cold chill, and even that season becomes only another way you find to feel complete, another texture for your restless spirit to fill. There is no way you can be contained or carefully compressed by ordinary words, or by rooms, or by places, or even by the things you might have confessed. You exceed description; you slip away from every label. You are strange-yes, profoundly strange-and forever, magnificently out of range.
It is crystal clear to me now-just as it was last year-though I hesitated to admit it even to myself. I hoped that if I stayed quiet, if I simply waited it out, the feeling would fade or resolve on its own. But as time has gone on, it has become obvious that certain truths refuse to disappear. Further along the road of our lives, everything eventually reaches its conclusion; yet tonight feels strangely resistant to that natural ending. This night stretches on, outlasting easy laughter, shared memories, private jokes, scattered notes, and yesterday’s headlines that once seemed so important. In the end, it seems that what we truly possess are these winding, unfamiliar paths-these strange avenues-down which we walk together, uncertain but still moving forward. So now, let us pause and count-not just numbers, but the small moments, the quiet victories, and the subtle disappointments. Let us count and attempt to smile, even if the smile feels somewhat forced, and try to chart some kind of course through all of this uncertainty. I keep searching for a way through, some clear direction or solution, yet I must admit that I still do not know what to do. All the dinosaurs disappeared from this world, and no one was there to mourn them; their extinction passed without lament. That absence of grief, that lack of lamentation for what is irrevocably gone, is precisely the feeling I am trying to describe. Farther along the lane, all things eventually come to pass, and this night continues to extend beyond its rightful boundaries, outlasting memories, jokes, scribbled notes, and the transient clutter of yesterday’s news. It leaves us with the realization that all we truly hold onto are these unfamiliar routes-these strange avenues-through which we attempt to make sense of our lives. Speak as though you are confident, as though you truly know which direction we should take from here. Maintain that serious expression, that composed exterior, even as everything inside sounds an alarm. There is very little calm in reality, only the appearance of it. Impress me with your assurances and your carefully chosen signs that everything is under control, that everything is fine, even if we both suspect otherwise. Take me to the shoreline, drive me to the beach, and let us see what truths, if any, we can uncover there amid the sound of the waves. Down the lane, all things eventually come to pass, yet this particular night seems determined to continue, to stretch beyond what is reasonable, outlasting our memories, our private jokes, our stray notes, and the fleeting echoes of yesterday’s news. In the end, it seems that what we genuinely have left are these odd, intersecting paths-these strange avenues-we follow together, hoping they lead somewhere meaningful. I care for you deeply, both within and beyond the image you present, in and out of that dress, across every version of yourself that you allow me to see. At times, I am convinced that silence serves us better than a flood of clumsy words; it feels safer, more respectful, to let quiet speak where conversation might cause harm. You once took pleasure in my appearance, in the way I looked and moved, yet now you seem more drawn to the worlds contained in old books, to stories and ideas that live far beyond us. Further along the lane, all things find their conclusion; still, this night persists, outlasting our shared memories, our recurring jokes, our overlapping notes, and the quickly discarded headlines of yesterday’s news. And once again, I find myself accepting that the only constants we possess are these complicated pathways-these strange avenues-that we continue to navigate, side by side yet not always in step. When it rains, you keep walking, unbothered by the weather, as if the storm were a private conversation between you and the sky. When there is no one around, you begin to talk, filling the emptiness with thoughts and questions that rarely find answers. Did you enjoy the paintings we saw at the gallery, or were you quietly disappointed, wishing for something entirely different, something that spoke more clearly to what you wanted to see? Pour me a drink, offer me a brief thrill or distraction, and yet I cannot help but wonder why you remain with him, why you stay in a situation that appears to pull you down. Is your mind beginning to falter, or simply growing tired of compromise? Let us at least allow ourselves one unrestrained evening in the city-red lights flashing, sirens wailing in the distance, a sense of urgency hanging in the air. I find myself wishing you would refuse the attention of those boys who left town in such haste, who never truly understood you. Did you ever imagine a different life, with this person or that one-did you ever wish for such and such and then quietly set the wish aside? Down the lane, all things inevitably come to pass, but tonight stretches on, enduring beyond our memories, our jokes, our scattered notes, and yesterday’s now-irrelevant news. Ultimately, what remains are these intricate, disorienting paths-these strange avenues-along which we continue to move. We talk of locks and keys, of what can be opened and what will remain forever closed, as though understanding these metaphors might give us control. We drift into familiar conversations about the birds and the bees, about desire, consequence, and the awkward education that comes with growing older. My mouth is closed now, held shut by an awareness that careless words could provoke unnecessary conflict. Yet at the same time, I feel myself bracing, quietly prepared for an argument if one should arise, ready to defend what little clarity I have. As we continue down this road, all things will, in time, come to pass; yet, again, this particular night refuses to end, stretching beyond our memories, our running jokes, our half-finished notes, and the endlessly replaced stories of yesterday’s news. In the end, we are left with our meandering, uncertain journey-these strange avenues-that we keep exploring, hoping that somewhere along the way, they will lead us toward understanding.
It is happy hour again, and he wanders slowly into view, drifting into the familiar glow of the bar’s dim lights. He stands at the side of the bar alone, slightly hunched, yet drinking as if there were two of him to satisfy. If love is truly in the air, all it seems to have done is ruffle his hair and unsettle his thoughts, leaving him with nothing but the faint echo of what might have been. He fixes his gaze on the liquid in his glass, watching the way it catches the light and trembles with each small movement, until the drink is gone and the glass stands empty, as though it had never held anything at all. Some days you can sense it approaching from a distance, as if it were descending from outer space, a slow, inevitable pull that cannot be avoided. It feels written in the stars above him, in an indifferent script, as he bends down to tie his shoelace, performing this small, ordinary ritual while everything else feels vast and uncertain. In those moments you want to reach for his arm, to guide him gently away from this place and from the weight he is carrying. Yet, instead of intervening, you remain still, watching him fade into the background, then disappear altogether, and you bury your hands in your face, consumed by the quiet ache of helplessness. He drifts toward the door when the hour is finally over and the bar begins to empty, as though time itself has signaled that he must move on. Still alone with his thoughts, he pretends that he is feeling fine, arranging his expression into something resembling composure. He pauses his breath and stands there for a moment, taking one last, long look around the room-the chairs, the bottles, the silent witnesses to his private rituals-before stepping out into the night and leaving behind the long, drawn-out hour it took to reach this point. Some days you can sense it approaching from a distance, as if it were descending from outer space, a strange and distant force that cannot be reasoned with. It feels written in the stars above him, indifferent yet inescapable, as he bends down to tie his shoelace, as though anchoring himself to the ground with that small act. You feel an urge to reach out, to clasp his arm and lead him gently out of the room, away from the slow unraveling of his evening. But once again, you do nothing. You simply stand there and watch as he vanishes from sight, and then you bury your hands in your face, weighed down by the knowledge of what you did not do. You let your most precious thoughts drift away, sending them out across an imagined sea, as if they were messages in fragile bottles. You compose a note to yourself, a quiet confession that was never intended for me or for anyone else, a reminder that some truths must remain unspoken. You sit down on a bench and watch the steady stream of people passing by-strangers with unknown stories, moving with purpose or drifting aimlessly-and you wonder how it all began, how such ordinary moments grew into something so heavy. You think about how one finally learns to say goodbye, and whether goodbye is ever truly the end. Some days you can sense it approaching from a distance, as if it were descending from outer space, strange yet eerily familiar. It seems written in the stars as he bends down once more to tie his shoelace, grounding himself for just a second in a world that keeps shifting around him. You feel that same urgent impulse to reach for him, to lead him gently out of the place and away from the quiet damage being done. Yet again, you do not move. You remain where you are, a silent observer, and watch him disappear from view, and then, with a mixture of grief and resignation, you bury your hands in your face. You buy a small trinket from an adult shop just down the road, a place lit by harsh neon that makes everything look more temporary than it already is. You tell yourself that you will one day give it to her, even though she is no longer near and may never return to the spaces you once shared. Time has slipped away, and with it those hours that felt so certain and secure-hours that seemed to hold you both in a kind of fragile safety, that felt like a cure for the confusion of living. Now they exist only as echoes, reminders of what you once believed would last. There are moments in the corner store, when you are simply buying milk and bread, that you feel memory closing in on you. In those small, routine gestures, he remembers things he wishes he had done and words he wishes he had never spoken, replaying them in his mind like an old recording. He wonders whether time is a straight line carrying him relentlessly forward, or a circle that keeps looping back, drawing him around to the same questions again and again. He imagines that one day he will fall completely, only to rise once more from the hardening ground, uncertain but still compelled to continue. Some days you can sense it approaching from a distance, as if it were descending from outer space, out of sight but impossible to ignore. It feels written in the stars above him as he bends again to tie his shoelace, clinging to that tiny act of order in a life that often feels untidy. You want to seize his arm, to lead him away from the quiet collapse you can almost see beneath the surface. Yet you do not act; you simply watch as he disappears yet again, and you bury your hands in your face, heavy with all the might-have-beens. It becomes one season and then the next, and time moves on in a slow, unbroken procession. Sometimes he feels a fleeting sense that everything is flowing smoothly, that life is a continuous current carrying him gently forward, and for a moment he almost trusts it. At other times the days drag themselves along, as if he were crawling on his hands and knees, struggling to cover even the smallest distance. In those quieter hours he listens as the silence settles around him, deep and absolute, and he feels his mind begin to freeze, caught between what was and what might never be. Some days you can sense it approaching from a distance, as if it were descending from outer space, vast and impenetrable. It appears written in the stars each time he bends to tie his shoelace, as though fate has been reduced to these small, repetitive motions. You feel the same longing to reach out, to guide him gently away from the places that hold his sorrow. But, as before, you remain still and silent. You watch him slip out of sight once more, and with a familiar mix of regret and resignation, you bury your hands in your face. Out on the highway, a single car follows a desperate, uncertain path, its headlights cutting through the darkness ahead. He grips the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers begin to ache and bleed, the pressure mirroring the strain inside his chest. A curve is coming, a bend in the road that feels both literal and symbolic, a point beyond which everything could change. His mind is crowded with curses and half-formed thoughts, the kind that flare hot with anger and fear before cooling into a heavy, resigned chill, leaving him alone with the sound of the engine and his own racing heartbeat. Some days you can sense it approaching from a distance, as if it were descending from outer space, relentless and strange. It seems written in the stars, even as he bends to tie his shoelace once more, in some other time, in some other place, always under the same indifferent sky. You want to stop him, to hold on to him, to lead him away from the edge he seems destined to approach. Yet you do not move; you stand there in stillness, watching him vanish again and again into the unfolding distance, and you bury your hands in your face, holding the weight of all that you could not change.
Did I say it well? I should, I should, I should have spoken of gratitude and of love, of how deeply your gifts shaped my days, of how freely you gave what you did not have to give. I should have acknowledged the quiet ways you lifted me, and the harms I caused that you so patiently forgave. Instead, a longing, a lost and mute scream, rises wordless in my chest and drifts across the rooftops in a distant, restless dream-raw and unresolved. Mad as sorrow can be, I suppose, for there are griefs that have no neat conclusion. And in those moments I understand that sometimes what is less is simply, painfully less: fewer words, fewer chances, fewer truths spoken in time. Did I say it well? Perhaps not. It was not a matter of memory, not that I simply forgot. It was a kind of ingrained reserve, an inbuilt reticence that rose up like a wall, overwhelming what little courage I had in my own defence. The feelings were there, full and urgent, but the voice to carry them failed. A longing, a lost mute scream, once again travels invisibly across the rooftops in a dream, unresolved and unacknowledged. It is as irrational and intense as sorrow can be, I guess, this frustration with my own silence, this anger at the words that never came. Sometimes what is less really is less: fewer admissions, fewer apologies, fewer moments of honest connection, and the emptiness they leave behind. I should have spoken many times, not once or twice, but over and over, until my sincerity was unmistakable. I rehearsed my best lines in the privacy of my mind, imagined conversations in which I finally said what needed to be said. I might have tried so much harder, pushed myself past embarrassment, past fear, past the subtle comfort of staying quiet. Perhaps I could have remained present in your life, stayed on your radar instead of letting myself fade to the margins. And now a longing, a lost mute scream, passes again across the rooftops in a recurring dream, a haunting echo of what might have been. Mad as sorrow can be, I guess, when it is fuelled by regret. Sometimes what is less really is less: the smaller effort, the quieter presence, the opportunities not taken that diminish everything that follows. Why did I not do it, why did I not speak at that precise, fragile moment when the moon reached its peak and cast a pale, revealing light between the leafless trees? The world held its breath; there was a stillness that invited truth. I should have opened up and given you all of me-my fears, my hopes, my flawed but honest heart. Instead I remained locked within myself, a spectator to my own hesitation. Now a longing, a lost mute scream, glides over the rooftops in the night, resurfacing in dreams that will not let me rest. Mad as sorrow can be, I guess, when it circles endlessly around the same unspoken words. Sometimes what is less really is less: one silence too many, one confession too few, and the moment passes forever out of reach. My mind twists and fades away at the crucial times, tangling thoughts until clarity is lost. My mouth, when it finally opens, speaks without care, offering small talk and half-truths instead of the careful honesty you deserved. Later, on the street or leaning against the bar, I replay everything and wish-fiercely, foolishly-upon a distant star that I could go back and choose better words, or any real words at all. A longing, a lost mute scream, again sweeps across the rooftops in a recurring dream, stubborn and unresolved. Mad as sorrow can be, I guess, when it combines self-reproach with nostalgia. Sometimes what is less really is less: less thought, less intention, and the hollow ache that follows careless speech. My eyes have seen the quiet tragedy of lost chances, of a story told the wrong way and now set in ink. There is, in truth, no going back; the door once open has gently, irrevocably closed, and days and hopes together fade to black. And you-sweet, sweet girl, so tender and so kind-remain within me as a steady, luminous presence, like a lantern of the mind that still casts a gentle light through the dark. I would walk a thousand miles, cross any distance, just to see one of your unguarded smiles again, to feel for a moment that warmth I once took for granted. Yet still a longing, a lost mute scream, moves across the rooftops in my dream, a lament for what I failed to protect. Mad as sorrow can be, I guess, when affection survives where possibility does not. Sometimes what is less really is less: less time, fewer chances, and the simple happiness I did not know how to keep. I never said it-the one thing, or the many things, I might have spoken. I carried those words like a sealed letter in my pocket, and then one ordinary day you were suddenly out of sight: first just across the road, then a figure further and further away, until distance became finality. Only when it was too late did I understand what I had to say, and to whom. Now the days blend and stay all the same, each one marked by the same dull rhythm of words withheld and silences maintained. Speech and silence both came, but rarely in the right order, and in the end the shutters fell-on conversations, on possibilities, on us. No one is here now to hear my call, and still a longing, a lost mute scream, travels restlessly across the rooftops of my dreams. Mad as sorrow can be, I guess, when it is fed by the knowledge that there will be no second chance. Sometimes what is less really is less: too few words, too little courage, and a final quiet that cannot be undone.
Future calls out, a series of distant beeps, beep, beep-ah, catching me completely off guard while I am half asleep, drifting between dreaming and waking. I feel as though I am about to launch into outer space, rising far beyond the familiar sky, past Venus and Jupiter, slipping through the quiet corridors of the cosmos, as if I were going to steal your face-your very identity-from among the stars. He is standing on the moon, still and solitary, as if he has arrived too early, ahead of his own time, unsure if anyone will join him there. The future unfolds at an almost imperceptible pace, moving real, real slow, and no one can be certain where it will eventually lead or how it will change us. Moon man, moon man, continue to sing and sing again, your voice echoing through the vastness. Yes, we will listen carefully to whatever you are saying, ahh, attentive to every word that drifts down from your distant, shining vantage point. There is a faint rattle and hum as you move, dressed in your astronaut suit, a careful union of technology and imagination, then you begin floating gracefully all around, defying gravity with effortless charm-wow, you are so strikingly, unexpectedly cute. In your capsule, you orbit serenely around the planet and around the room, as if both spaces were one and the same, like a delicate flower carried on a soft breeze, like a divine swoon suspended between reality and illusion. He is standing on the moon once more, silently watching, as though he has arrived too soon for the world to fully understand him or the message he brings. The future continues to move at a measured, almost reluctant pace, real, real slow, unfolding layer by layer, and who can truly know where it will go or what it will reveal? Moon man, moon man, keep singing and sing again, your song a quiet guide through uncertainty. Yes, we will listen to whatever you are saying, ahh, trusting that your distant voice carries meaning we have yet to grasp. Your colours are shades of lemon and white, soft and luminous, combined with textures of cotton, silk, and lace, suggesting a delicate, refined presence. At night, you sleep suspended high above the floor, as though gravity has loosened its hold on you, and in your dreams you glide with ease through the walls and the door, moving beyond solid boundaries into realms we cannot see. He is standing on the moon, a quiet silhouette against the darkness, still seeming as though he arrived too soon for the era he inhabits. The future moves real, real slow, unfolding like a distant signal gradually becoming clear, and who knows where it will go, what form it will ultimately take? Moon man, moon man, sing and sing again, let your voice continue to echo through the night. Yes, we will listen to whatever you are saying, ahh, waiting patiently for your distant lullabies of tomorrow. And in your mind, what is it that you truly know-what hidden knowledge or quiet insights rest there? Is that the place where you dance, and is that the realm where you go when you slip and slide through thought, using your inner strength to navigate? You reach further than the visible distance, extending yourself far beyond any measured length, moving into territories that ordinary senses cannot trace. Bubbles of light, the slow rise of the sun, and the ever-swooning moon all seem to form the very shape of the reality that exists in your room, in the intimate universe that surrounds you. These images live in your eyes, your mouth, and your fingertips, in the quiet spaces between your gestures. Your silence and your speech are delicately threaded from your lovely lips, each word and each pause carrying subtle meaning and unspoken emotion. He is standing on the moon yet again, patient and watchful, still giving the impression that he arrived a little too soon for the world to fully understand him. The future continues to move real, real slow, advancing with a calm, almost hesitant rhythm, and who can say where it will go or what final shape it will take? Moon man, moon man, sing and sing again, letting your songs drift across the vast distance. Yes, we will listen to whatever you are saying, holding on to every distant note and quiet, echoing phrase.
I began writing you a simple message and, before I realised it, it expanded into an entire book of stories and poetry-then into scattered lists, half-finished sketches, and passing thoughts. Yet when I look back over it all, there is, in truth, very little of substance to show. After all this effort, it hardly qualifies as a book, barely even as something that anyone would truly miss. What remains instead is this winter light, sharp and unwavering, illuminating everything with a clarity that feels almost unforgiving: what has been abandoned and what is still held close. A woodpecker moves through the pale grass, the trees stand stripped to their bare essentials, and from the nearby road the distant, haunting sound of cars drifts across the open fields, carried on the cold breeze. I remember the night I scrawled a hurried piece of graffiti on a wall near the shopping centre, the paint barely dry before I heard approaching footsteps and ran, streaming away in panic, my breath catching in my throat. I fled as though I had committed some irreversible act, as though my small mark on that blank wall mattered more than it did. Now I sit quietly in the corner of a coffee shop, my phone in my hand, composing messages I never send, conversations that never quite begin. It feels, sometimes, as though communication itself is not the point in the end-that what we hold back says as much as what we say. And still this winter light remains so clear, insisting on the question of what we forsake and what we choose to cherish: the woodpecker in the grass, the trees reduced to their skeletal lines, and the low, continuous murmur of passing cars from the road, carried softly on the breeze. In my imagination, dragons and cats take hold of my tongue, keeping me from speaking plainly, translating my thoughts into riddles and myths. I tell myself, half seriously, that perhaps I should have been left to die young, preserved as a fixed idea rather than a living contradiction. It feels at times that I might have made a better story than a person-someone remembered fondly in the tinted light of nostalgia, cast forever in the role of romantic infamy, rather than someone who must simply endure each ordinary day. Yet again, the winter light cuts through such illusions with its steady clarity, returning me to the question of what is forsaken and what is held dear: the quiet persistence of the woodpecker in the grass, the stripped-down, unadorned trees, and the distant, haunting sound of cars from the road, carried almost musically on the breeze. I once believed that a handful of genius poems might be enough to change everything, to alter the rules of the game and rename both glory and despair in my own language. A roll of the dice, a moment of sudden inspiration, a single flick of the wrist across a blank page-I imagined it could all tilt the balance. But in the end, the path still leads downward, as it does for everyone, to a graveyard where most of us arrive neither recognised nor deeply loved, our names quickly blurred by time. Through it all, this winter light continues to shine with unsettling precision, revealing what matters and what slips away: the solitary woodpecker among the colourless blades of grass, the trees reduced to their stark outlines, and the far-off sound of cars drifting from the road, carried lightly yet persistently on the breeze. Meanwhile, the world continues to turn with its usual indifference, and nothing quite resembles the dramatic stories I once told myself it would. I am simply cold in the winter, wrapped in the small comforts of my books and my cat, anchored by these quiet companions. I walk to the churchyard and stand among the graves, watching over the dead as if they might at any moment rise to speak. Their silence, however, is absolute, and in that silence there is a depth that often exceeds anything the living manage to say. Overhead and all around, the winter light remains unflinching and clear, casting everything into sharp relief: what has been forsaken and what is held dear-the patient woodpecker in the grass, the bare, exposed trees, and the continuous, haunting sound of cars from the road, still and always carried on the breeze.
Once upon a winter afternoon, over a simple cup of coffee that ended far too soon, there she sat, with the golden light resting in her hair and eyes, and a soft, unguarded earnestness into which, ah, my heart quietly dies. In that brief hour the world seemed suspended between what was spoken and what remained unsaid, and afterwards there lingered a deep, unsettling sense that the earth itself had turned, round and round, lightly spinning as if her soul burned at its very core. Once, it was all brightness; then the shadows crept in, and now I find myself blind, groping for meaning. I carry this dull yet persistent thought that perhaps this love is singular, impossible to replicate, truly one of a kind-strange and tempest-tossed, a little tragic, unmistakably star-crossed. Once upon an evening, when the dark settled slow and cold over the city, memories returned of a time when I was not a ruin, not worn and old in spirit, when hope still moved freely through my veins. Books lay open then, suspended between thought and feeling, each page a bridge between what I understood and what I only dimly sensed. Now I hear my own heartbeat echoing in the quiet, a steady reminder of mortality’s double-dealing-granting time with one hand, stealing it back with the other, indifferent to desire. Once, it was all brightness; then the shadows deepened, and now I stumble as though blind, with only this muted conviction that maybe this love stands alone in its strangeness, tempest-tossed and fragile, a love at once tragic and irrevocably star-crossed. On the streets, the faces passing by seem tired and self-contained, each person carrying their own private loneliness, and yet, within those anonymous movements, there are small flickers of a fire that burns quietly between flesh and bone. Buses, lorries, cars, and vans glide through the damp air as if moving across deep and unseen waters, their headlights tracing uncertain paths; these everyday scenes continue, calm and indifferent, with nothing to prove and no need to justify their existence. Against this backdrop of ordinary motion, my thoughts return again and again to the same refrain: once it was light, then the dark arrived, and now I am blind to every simple certainty. Still, I cannot shake the notion that this love defies comparison, one of a kind-strange and storm-driven, edged with sorrow, a story that feels inescapably star-crossed. Once upon a distant star, or so it seemed, I gazed out through the pitch of night and wondered why yearning should be such a relentless, almost unbearable itch. It tugs at every nerve and sinew until movement itself feels constrained; I cannot walk easily here or there, cannot find a clear way out of this maze of feeling. The path ahead appears fractured, each step veering from fleeting certainty into a restlessness of unquiet doubt, where nothing settles long enough to trust. And still the same thought circles back: once it was all clean, bright light; then it dimmed into shadow, and I was left blind, holding only the conviction that this love is uniquely itself-strange, tossed about by tempests, touched by tragedy, and irretrievably star-crossed. Ah, once upon a midnight, when the world was hushed and every sound was magnified, the tears came and glistened bright, sharp as diamonds cutting into the delicate flesh of sight. They fell like fragments of broken glass, each one burning a path down my face, and behind them I felt the blood streaming silently from a heart already lacerated by loss and longing. In that hour it seemed there was no time remaining for any true repair, no reset button for this world or for the story we had written in half-spoken promises. Once there had been light, then creeping dark, and now I navigate as though blind, guided only by a dull, insistent awareness that this love refuses to resemble any other-singular, storm-ridden, tinged with tragedy, forever marked as star-crossed. Once upon a final sigh, a final word-when everything appeared to be fading and something in me prepared to let go-something unexpected slipped free from what had seemed impossible: a single, fragile word from her lips, or perhaps just a look caught across a room crowded with startled shadows. In that suspended instant, my heart stumbled and then leapt, skipping a beat like a sudden shaft of light cutting through dense cloud, briefly dispelling the gloom that had settled for so long. Yet even in that moment of illumination, the old refrain remained: once it was light, then the darkness closed in, and now I am left half-blind, clutching a quiet belief that this love is irreducibly one of a kind-strange, tossed by unrelenting tempests, touched always by the tragic, unavoidably star-crossed. Ah, once it was light, then dark, and now I am blind, surrounded by echoes of what could have been. I live with this persistent, almost stubborn thought that maybe, despite everything, this love remains one of a kind-shaped by storms, marked by sorrow, haunted by what fate denied. It is strange and tempest-tossed, fragile yet enduring, a narrative woven through with longing, forever tragic and irrevocably, beautifully star-crossed.
So many sad, sad songs, and so few moments when we truly set about righting the wrongs-those we have already lived through and those we sense are still to come. We spend so much time looking backward or anxiously gazing forward, yet it often feels as though nothing is ever fully resolved, that nothing is ever finally done. Our attempts to make amends blur into the background noise of everyday life, and we are left with the echo of regrets and unrealized intentions, wondering whether our efforts have any real impact at all. Spirits rise and fall; they shimmer and shift, always present, everywhere, just at the edge of perception. They move through the ordinary machinery of our days-from the lift and escalators to the swinging doors and stairwells-tracing invisible patterns in the spaces we pass through without thinking. We move from one level to another, then onward to the next floor, as if navigating endless layers of experience and expectation. And perhaps, once upon a time, somewhere along these transitions, we will finally discover what it is we have been searching for all along, even if we cannot yet fully name it. Under the open sky, beneath new moons and changing times, I encounter words and ideas that seem determined to reshape perspectives and transform minds. Yet I often find myself standing just outside of everything I think I know, detached from the certainty others seem to claim. I question my place in the patterns of the world and wonder: do I obey the signals and stop at the red lights, or do I move forward and go, ignoring the rules that frame our days? That tension between caution and impulse defines so many of the choices I face. Spirits rise and fall; they shimmer and hover everywhere, woven into the details of the everyday. They travel with us in the lift and on the escalators, through the swinging doors and up the staircases, as we progress from one level of understanding to the next. Each floor we reach suggests another just beyond it, another step in a journey with no clearly marked destination. And maybe, in some distant “once upon a time,” we will arrive at the place where what we are looking for finally reveals itself. I said the wrong thing once, not fully realizing the cost that would follow, and it reminded me that every word carries a price. Everyone, it seems, has something they are willing to pay or sacrifice, and if they do not, they risk feeling adrift and lost. I recall watching a film where men ran desperately through the snow, driven forward by the simple, absolute knowledge that if they stopped, they would die. Their urgency mirrored the inner push we sometimes feel: the conviction that we must keep going, no matter the fear or uncertainty. Spirits rise and fall; they glimmer in the in-between spaces, pervasive and elusive all at once. From the lift and escalators to the swinging doors and stairways, they accompany us as we move from one level of our lives, our careers, our relationships, to the next. Each new floor promises something different, something more, even if it remains undefined. And perhaps, in some future moment that feels like a story told long after the fact, we will understand what it was we were always trying to find. Is that truly how it is when we stop and think about our situation? It can feel as though we are always on the edge of something, always poised at the brink of change or collapse, unsure which way we will fall. Alternatively, it sometimes seems that we are slowly sinking, like being caught in quicksand, drawn down by obligations, doubts, and quiet fears. In those moments, we reach out instinctively, searching for support, for someone’s steadying presence, for a helping hand that might pull us back to solid ground. Spirits rise and fall; they flicker in and out of view, yet remain persistently present in the framework of our days. They drift with us from the lift to the escalators, past the swinging doors and along each stair, accompanying our steady movement from one level to the next floor and beyond. As we progress through these unseen thresholds, we hold on to the hope that one day, perhaps in a time that feels almost mythical, we will finally come across what we have been seeking, the answer or meaning that has eluded us. Who can say who needs what, at any given hour of the day or night? I move through crowded streets filled with faces and stories, and yet I often have nothing to say, remaining a quiet observer rather than a participant. Around me, familiar figures of imagination and myth-Robin Hood, Peter Pan, the captain with a hook, Cinderella and her wicked sisters, and the solitary girl with the book-seem to walk alongside real people, symbolizing stolen chances, lost innocence, cruelty, resilience, and introspection. They become metaphors for the roles we assume and the dreams we carry, even in the most ordinary settings. As the streetlights glow and the day slowly fades into evening, I catch myself wondering and dreaming about what might happen on another day, in another chapter of this ongoing story. I consider the possibility that this quiet anticipation-this deferred, suspended kind of hope-might be all there really is: a continuous expectation that something meaningful awaits just ahead. Then I step onto a bus, letting it carry me forward, and I feel briefly like a trickster with a rope, moving through the city’s veins, playing along with fate, bending but never quite breaking the rules. Spirits rise and fall; they shimmer with persistent subtlety, everywhere and always, crossing paths with our routines and our surprises. From the lift and escalators to the swinging doors and the stair, they travel beside us as we move from one level to the next floor, changing stages of life almost without noticing. And perhaps, once upon a time, when we look back over these many ascents and descents, we will finally recognize what it was we had been looking for all along. Spirits rise and fall; they continue their ceaseless motion, echoing our own cycles of doubt and renewal. They are there in the lift, on the escalators, behind the swinging doors, along every stairway we climb or descend, marking each transition from one level to another. As we advance from floor to floor, season to season, we carry with us a quiet, persistent belief that someday-somewhere within this layered journey-we will arrive at that elusive place where what we seek and what we find finally become the same.