I am awake early for a rehearsal. I slept about five hours and managed one of those intensely plotted dreams of which I retain only a fragment like a movie trailer of a woman in a high-waisted white Empire gown running through a pre-dawn or dusk the same drowned blue as her eyes; she is stumbling down an empty road with clouds hanging over the fields and as she runs her face begins to stream like water or ectoplasm, coiling and thickening the air behind her. The funny thing is that it wasn't a nightmare, but I don't know what it was. I would have thought one thing if she was running toward the sea, but she wasn't.
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- 1: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 2: You're on, music master
- 3: Here we are in the summer rain again
- 4: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 5: To cormorant to samphire to plover
- 6: I'm the left hand ticking on the timeless clock
- 7: Hope and anger in the ink and on the streets
- 8: Rewriting old excuses, delete the kisses at the end
- 9: In those days, I still believed in the future
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