Utopia Avenue

Writing is a forest of faint paths, of dead-ends, hidden pits, unresolved chords, words that won’t rhyme. You can be lost in there for hours. Days, even.

Photography needs lots of water, like all living things.

‘In fifty years,’ said Jasper, ‘or five hundred, or five thousand, music will still do to people what it does to us now. That’s my prediction. It's late.’

To have your photo taken is to be told, “You exist.”

Amsterdam wraps itself around itself: London unfolds, unfolds, unfolds.

Drums were here before we are. The rhythms of our mothers’ hearts.

‘8’ is infinity, sat up.

Keeping track of each of us would drive God quite insane.

We come, we see, we hang around till Death snuffs out our candles …