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Rating: When we were small, snow fell before us, and we didn’t even know it. Arnold's line was being prepared, and they told us not to worry about the little trains; they would take care of everything. Meanwhile, the game was getting complex. Emily said that apples and oranges were good, but we were like scarecrows in the wind. And by all the devils, the preacher Robert Mitchum would not have had us, our tears have fertilized the best hopes of the record labels and dug the groove upon which the downers sprouted.
Until the cities stole from us the carefree joy of the hunt for the holy crumhorn to project us into full astronomical dominance. Astral weeks and cadastral shifts began, the cosmic void, what is fear, but what will the dull explosion between two colliding planets be that crumble without flame.
Ethelion echoed in the porphyry streets of our cities where on one leg the Eskimos scuttled the fog. The notes of certain pieces of British artillery fired fragmentation missiles of mirrors, which raining down around us created that kaleidoscopic effect that beatified more than one ear, until the wrenches gave way to the Mohican crests and the bolts screwed industrial music to the temples.
Blessed Brancalesque troops of the castles, the maids breathed, now take a good gulp of greenhouse gas and calm yourselves by searching in your trunks full of records for that now worn and distant breeze of the past that will not return.
Only that... I should have talked to you about these two records, but now I no longer feel like it, another time maybe...
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