Everybodys Got Their Own Situation

I Say Too Much Of What, He Says Too Much Of Everything, Too Much Stuff, Too Many Places, Too Much Information, Too Many People, Too Much Of Things For There To Be Too Much Of, There Is Too Much To Know And I Don't Know Where To Begin But I Want To Try.

If You Listen, You Can Hear It. The City, It Sings. If You Stand Quietly, At The Foot Of A Garden, In The Middle Of The Street, On The Roof Of A House. It's Clearest At Night, When The Sound Cuts More Sharply Across The Surface Of Things, When The Song Reaches Out To A Place Inside You. It's A Wordless Song, For The Most, But It's A Song All The Same, And Nobody Hearing It Could Doubt What It Sings. And The Song Sings The Loudest When You Pick Out Each Note.

All The Emails I Get These Days Start With Sorry But I've Been So Busy, And I Don't Understand How We Can Be So Busy And Then Have Nothing To Say To Each Other.

The Whole City Stopped - And This Is A Pause Worth Savouring, Because The World Will Soon Be Complicated Again.

It Is Something I Recognise In Myself. I Do Eavesdrop. I Do People-watch, A Lot.