r i c k . m:
Silver white winters that melt into springs. Brown paper packages tied up with strings. These are a few of my favourite things.
r i c k . m:
The Sound Of A Thousand Blind Eyes Turning Away.
r i c k . m:
Innocent Bystanders.
r i c k . m:
Are They Or Aren't They?
r i c k . m:
where we come from, the birds sing a pretty song.
r i c k . m:
the coffin makers daughter.
r i c k . m:
what's the matter man? you don't shiv?
r i c k . m:
talk a little, why don't you?
r i c k . m:
whenever the dust settles, there will be singing in the dark corners of our cities.
r i c k . m:
the incidental things that flood over us like a daybreak in the abyss.
r i c k . m:
the more things change, the more they stay the same.
r i c k . m:
s o m e t i m e s .
r i c k . m:
w h i t e _ h i g h w a y .
r i c k . m:
w i n t e r _ s h o r e s .
r i c k . m:
j o e ' s _ d e a d .
r i c k . m:
we killed a man, drew. shot him in the back. a mountain man. a cracker.
r i c k . m:
it's hard to be sincere with a mouth full of dust.
