MOTORCYCLE EMPTINESS by MANIC STREET PREACHERS. Story by Grace La Pace.
The six-minute masterpiece Motorcycle Emptiness truly was a rare opus in my incredibly mundane life.
The six-minute masterpiece Motorcycle Emptiness truly was a rare opus in my incredibly mundane life.
Sadness is what I know best and it continues to seek me out relentlessly. Its loyalty never fails.
But I remember watching SinĆ©ad on stage. I remember trying to absorb some of her strength, to physically inhale it across the crowd. Thatās how you construct identity, surely?
Thereās nothing the policewoman can do. My witness is the cloudless sky, and I know heāll lie about it.
It was a time of riding on a barrel of a song and being saved by a fisherman called Friedrich Nietzsche and his novel Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
I was somehow out of breath as if my heart had expanded in sorrow and joy, crushing my lungs.
I knew that the only way to achieve full closure on this difficult chapter of my life was to go to London and retrace Roryās own steps by walking his Lonely Mile. It would be a strange form of pilgrimage for me.
I sent you a goodbye message in the chat youād set up because, unlike the song, we never really did talk on the telephone.
Just months into the marriage, Iād suspected that Iād made a mistake, but whenever that recognition descended, I shook it off. I told myself that I had seized control of my life.
Sitting in the pew of a small, Mexican church and hearing the tears of a broken family while Mother Mary looked down upon them. Same pain, different name.