A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves. ↗
I try to ask visual questions. I'll ask what someone was wearing, if that seems relevant. If possible, I'll walk over the same ground that they're depicting. Of course, I can never get it precisely as it was. ↗
I can assure you, that the gallant hearts that throb beneath its sacred folds, will only be content, when this glorious banner is planted first and foremost in the coming struggle for out independence. ↗
Usually I can hear the pianos, the saxophone, and usually I can hear Ronnie. But I really need to listen to Keith and Mick. The rest of the band is sort of an embellishment to that. ↗