Back among the fugitives, i write letters to the cities where i did not dare to live explaining why it never would have worked out between us. After all, what is there to dream where the lights never blink their eyes and you cannot see the stars. What is there to dream when you cannot find the night anywhere but behind your eyes.
In which a long-time record collector decides which albums to keep and which to cull, supplemented by other commentary
Simply beautiful. Well done!!
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