Others times, however, they own the hurry of an exciting discovery, made by patterns and affections, past and origins; the reason humility isn’t always enough to allow it a space. Better to imprison them through feelings, running over the body without breath, harboured in small caves, not recognizable, almost lost, misunderstood traces, the symptons.
"Panic on the streets of London/ Panic on the streets of Birmingham/ I wonder to myself/ Could life ever be sane again/ On the Leeds side-streets that you slip downI wonder to myself/ Hopes may rise on the Grasmeres/ But Honey-Pie you're not safe here/ So you run down to the safety of the town/ But there's Panic on the streets of Carlisle/ Dublin, Dundee, Humberside/ I wonder to myselfBurn down the Disco/ Hang the blessed D.J./ Because the music that they constantly play/ IT SAYS NOTHING TO ME ABOUT MY LIFE/ Hang the blessed D.J./ Beacuse the music they constantly play/ On the Leeds side-streets that you slip down/ On the provincial towns you jog 'round".
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