This is the emotional landscape of Liverpool. Through the thick and thin, across a curtain of fog, the sea clashes against The Island.
The voice comes from England, where the prince of Denmark was supposed to find his fellow men, those inflicted by deep madness. The blue moon illuminates the land that embraces the cold sea. There is history speaking here. This is a land of spectres.
This is the voice, the band, the arrangements that should have taken over the world but didn't. Some people have tragedy in their bloods, she said. Ian, that name, possesed by so many ghosts. He sings from the bottom. The "ocen rain" can be heard in the background, without it being there.
Fate up against your will: the time is, was, will be out of joint. The man behind the microphone knows, without knowing, his role on the stage of the world. With how sad steps, o moon, thou climbst the skies: the moon turns blood-red: it knows what we don't. It's the source of all human anguish: the consciousness of death.
Finiteness, live, impossible to repeat. Recorded, for history, for the angels trapped in the storm. The debirs of progress, the rubbish of modern life, piles up at Echo's feet. It's something mythical. It's the new folk-lore. It's a look back, in anger. It's doing what you have to do. The debris at their feet are those who got better known, who crowd stadiums, who win Grammys. They know, though, that they are the angels: they communicate with a higher plane.
It's the fate of the hero: the beauty of giving up. The cruelty in a kiss. Just let go. Face it: it's not up to us.
The rest, is beauty.
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