Both Mr Rice and Mr Blunt were once here a long time ago – one was armed with a cannonball; the other, a massive hit which I did not find all that beautiful, really.
Mr Powter joined them very much later with a sixth song that is actually the first song; he left it playing on a free loop most of the time.
Mr Gray is currently taking a long, long break; he is possibly still stuck in slow motion somewhere in Babylon, and I miss him already.
Mr Gough pops by every once in a while, but not without bringing along magic in the air, a few friendly ducks, and some silent sighs.
Mr Johnson came but left shortly after, in between dreams – he needed to find out why his train kept breaking down on him.
Mr Morrissey comes and goes whenever he likes; after all, in his own words – the more you ignore him, the closer he gets.
Mr Stevens makes rare but memorable appearances; apparently the predatory wasps of the palisades turns him all the more quirky.
Mr Day is here sometimes; I still welcome him with open arms, waiting for him to take me on, anytime, as he finds a way to stop the world now.
Mr Chaplin is also here every day; despite being held up somewhere under the iron sea, he needs to regularly check on the frog prince.
But Mr Tweedy has always been here, while not being there; I have not been quite the lonely one since.
Then there is the oft-homesick Norwegian duo; an 11-piece collective who does handjobs for the holidays; the hot, hot ones stuck in an elevator; a couple of lost unicorns stranded in some islands; editors who have been to Munich and back; those who say they love you but have actually chosen darkness…
... and then he came along.
Mr Mayer, I am again yours… for now.
It is so easy to fall in love. Yes, belief can.
(I know, I know: I am afraid I am becoming more and more music-deprived.)