I'm Learning To Hate The Sound Of

To The Resentment That Hides Inside Love, To The Loneliness That Hides Among Companions.

The Past Is Still Visible. The Buildings Haven't Changed, The Layout Of The Streets Hasn't Changed. So Memory Is Very Available To Me As I Walk Around.

It's Impossible To Overstate How My Relationship To Music Forms A Preserve For The Esoteric Or Even Spiritual Aspect Of My Relationship To Cultural Stuff, To Human Expressivity... It's A Safe Enclosure.

But The Day I Can't Shrug Off A Twinge Of Self-pity, Is The Day I'm Washed Up For Keeps.

What Exactly Is Postmodernism, Except Modernism Without The Anxiety?