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Words are the thing Like magnets Signs Like a forecast to the past Century sentences guarding our paths Whatever the weather sun rain The movement of the clouds Above As you pretend to look for my shape And I Casting my own spell Imagine you Lying in the chilled grass Counting the drops Rain one you're cool Rain two dropping all over Rain three you're burning

So confident. So full of Joy Division. He'd had a number of fixations about his appearance in those days. We laughed about how he would become hysterical if I even touched his hair. He'd sliced the edges of his ears off in Borstal - talk about a short sharp shock - before taking the razor to the length of his arms. His skin was so white. DIY plastic surgery. I don't think we'd heard of compulsive disorders then. He used to be on Mogadon. It was quite unusual then. I hardly know anyone who isn't on some sort of anti-depressant now. I enquired about his manic depression. Bloated, beery and burpy with unkind eyes that he's always complained of. I'd had to constantly reassure him about - suddenly bacame starkly visible. The bulb on the end of his nose. His too curvy lips. His too big feet and strangely immobile hair.