I look out onto the staircase, there are no sounds outside tonight.
And I'm wondering how to begin this; writing about a song that connects with my childhood, though this can't be true, I was too young to remember this (how could I remember that live performance with the singer, clasping the microphone; lit cigarette in her mouth).
The weather is strange at the moment: cold, but the flowers have already started to blossom on the trees. It's an absent winter.
On that boat trip from the North he saw snow for the first time. The way the colours of the leaves on the trees - in another season - looked like fire, burning constant.
The truth is I can't remember the detail. I should have written it down. And this live version doesn't come close to the beauty of the original, where the dramatic pose contrasts with the orchestrated cleanliness of the beat, cutting through artificial.
I want to imagine how it must have felt for him then; seeing the snow fall on the bodies of others. He has the face of a statue you could imagine on a stone temple, bas-relief; the scar cutting his face into a double, where the nose was broken and then his body cut with a knife.