Something’s happening here, and, sorry boys, what it is is getting to be exactly clear. First Manifestation “…For there are only two kinds of time (time-future being the province of melancholy seers, jocular quacks, and somber religionists promising kingdoms they haven’t the conge to promise): there is
(RECITATION): I dedicate this song to the working man, for every man that puts in eight or ten hard hours a day of work and toil and sweat, who’s always got somebody looking down his neck trying to get more out of him than he
Straddling a divided four-lane highway on a windy hilltop northeast of Glasgow is a chaotic architectural montage of interconnected buildings and passages of various sizes, shapes and colors that has become internationally famous: the all-in-one city center of the new town of Cumbernauld. The irregular
Tim sits guzzling cheap beer down by the docks on Ibiza. He’s 57, sun-burned to a ripe mahagony, and keeps brushing shoulder-length gray hair from the tangle of his full, white beard. Otherwise he sits in total repose, only his mouth moving in clipped Cockney
September 28, 1972 Ibiza, Spain The big blue van, a smear of dust and dents and rust, jerked into the central square of Santa Eulalia, back-fired and clattered to a stop. Slowly, its back-doors opened, groaning on ancient hinges. And then, tentatively, putting one
