I first heard you during an early 1980’s English Summer, the back door open, the sound of the garden outside. I was caught somewhere between the music of Cirrus Minor and the album cover of Umma Gumma.
A late night stroll walking home, the wintery mist on my breath, nobody around. The noise of a passing Volkswagon Beetle, the echoing sound of footsteps of a late night jogger, bouncing off the brick walls, my own personal On The Run.
Shine on Pink Floyd, you gave me an endless blue sky horizon, a mirage on an endless road, a digital sunrise in synth morse code. The faceless businessman was my imaginary friend. In my headphone isolation you crept up behind me and laughed in my ear, that I turned around in shock.
Pink Floyd, you never end. You only start again.
