Some days, everything is a machine, by which I mean
remove any outer covering and you will most likely
find component parts: cogs and wheels that whir just
like an artificial heart, a girl in a red cap redacting
the sky, fish that look like blimps and fishlike blimps,
an indifferent lighthouse that sweeps the horizon.
I wasn’t a child for long, and after I wasn’t, I was
something else. I was this. And that. A blast furnace,
a steel maze inside, the low-level engine room of an
ocean liner. My eye repeats horizontally what I by
this time already know: there is no turning back to
be someone I might have been. Now there will only
ever be multiples of me.
Julian Bream ~ Music of the 20th Century