Collapsing new constructions

The entire context

when I saw you,

you looked so surprised
and the oceans flowed through your blue-grey eyes
and i stood and gazed through hot summer days
so tell me: how do you feel?

Sometimes I think I want to but I don't know if I should

You don't understand, you are not paying attention

There is no need to go out now: everything is in place. But I would have liked to walk up the long, bright avenue, to walk until very late, until I am so tired that an unknown precision takes my place or some order urges me on, still farther. I see nothing now, hear nothing, or rather I can perceive such a confusion of detail that, according to chance, it is the unseen that is expressed in me. I love the cold that quickens these movements, the rain that effaces them, the heat that sets them and breaks them up into superfluous curves. I feel myself change to the slightest movements of the air: I am the first to feel them and adapt myself to them. If I turn my head, you don't understand, you are not paying attention. If I suddenly alter my direction, you think I have taken a wrong turning or that I am just wandering about aimlessly. Did he walk with such application, did he pause to hear himself perhaps or see himself? For his body, I am sure that until the very end he held it before him, in a kind of shape visible only to himself, never forgotten, never completed . . . She, on the other hand, during summer nights on the white, deserted beach uncovered by the retreating tide, I was surprised that she could walk so naturally, so lightly. While I stumbled -- I still stumble over the same obstacle. Suddenly immobile, in the middle of the street, or anywhere. I don't know where I am, before, behind; where I stopped, or where I am supposed to be. I set out again, carefully at first, then more and more quickly as I feel less tied to what surrounds and holds me: a simple form, dressed, equipped, protected, absolutely cut off from the rest, starting to run, trying no doubt to cut itself off, unconsciously, from that lower part of itself that clamours endlessly, unceasingly for independence . . . And I run through the cool night coloured with lights, I reach the park that is deserted at this time, I run along dark paths, I jump on to seats and iron chairs, overturning them; I run more lightly, freely among the trees, my head thrown back, lost, losing myself with nothing, yet suffering from not being able to stay with what I lose.

You'll never get to heaven

Jim O'Rourke's newest project: a Burt Bacharach tribute record, featuring the likes of Kahimi Karie and Thurston Moore.