'I ask that all in our room fall, supplicant to our lost king, our missing postman. Can you transform your skulls, slipping off colourful masks, hiding sloppy and rotting forms of luxury and small hours of youth and yawning months of failing, slumping, growing old and adopt contortions of mourning? Calmly and slowly: cry, sob and wail (and synonyms).
All post is now lost in a labyrinth or burning in thick woods. I ask that you do not try to talk right away but shush. Ruins of car by hospital. I ask for no flash photography. No attacks, bangs, blasts. No man to climb our buildings and jump. You fall. You hit a roof. It hurts.
Goodnight, missing postman, sir. A man of poor construction.
A lot of rain turning first to fog... soon much snow.
Out, out, transmission out.'
1. PiL- Radio 4
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