The Hurting / tears for fears

Memphis, 1983, this time of year, and I scramble to capture all I’d missed about Harlaxton. I park my Fiat in George’s gravel drive and stand in my room, guitar slung over my shoulders, learning all the songs that had infected me from the summer before and the spring in England.

Is it an horrific dream?

...just seemed deep, not a ridiculous thing nobody would ever say.
Roland and Kurt stood in their three quarter length black coats, hair everywhere, skimming along the edges of a pond in Hyde Park.