i see you in my dreams
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collecting things... and memories.

♡  concerts  ♡  my music  ♡  my tube  ♡  your wor(l)ds  ♡







An essential part of music is to connect with our shared inner feelings, to recognize the connections, and know that you’re not alone. I like to think of it as the old metaphor of two ships at sea. We flash our signal lights as we pass one another. It makes life less lonely. It’s wired into us.
— wendy carlos
Well, of course it does. Because it puts me in a really bad mood. And usually I transform it, and I get out of being angry. I never stop. Never. I never go off the stage. But now I think what I’m going to have to do is hire a couple of guys to pound the shit out of people who make a sound while I’m playing.
— diamanda galás (Is that something that really influences the performance?)
everybody is so talented nowadays that the only people i care to honor as deserving real distinction are those who remain in obscurity.
— thomas hardy
they form part of a memory, of a time in life, the experiences, hopes and dreams connected to that time, or even to a single moment. they become a part of shaping what you become in a way that file sharing has never done. i cannot look back at an mp3 file with fond memories.
— gary numan, when asked: what do records mean to you?
i still feel like a misfit but i’m just not trying to fit in any more. i surround myself with other misfits therefore i think i’m completely normal.
— paloma faith
Happy “Easter” by Patti Smith x PW

“Easter Sunday, we were walking. Easter Sunday, we were talking. Isabel, my little one, take my hand. Time has come. Isabella, all is glowing. Isabella, all is knowing. And my heart, Isabella. And my head, Isabella. Frederick and Vitalie, savior dwells inside of thee. Oh, the path leads to the sun. Brother, sister, time has come. Isabella, all is glowing. Isabella, all is knowing. Isabella, we are dying. Isabella, we are rising. I am the spring, the holy ground, the endless seed of mystery, the thorn, the veil, the face of grace, the brazen image, the thief of sleep, the ambassador of dreams, the prince of peace. I am the sword, the wound, the stain. Scorned transfigured child of Cain. I rend, I end, I return. Again I am the salt, the bitter laugh. I am the gas in a womb of light, the evening star, the ball of sight that leads that sheds the tears of Christ dying and drying as I rise tonight. Isabella, we are rising. Isabella, we are rising”

from the album “easter” x PW






     via patrickwolfpalisade

i would be dead by now….without these two men in my life. they keep my delusion (and me) alive.
so much LOVE.
— kristeen young on morrissey and tony visconti

sell your soul to the company
they’re all waiting there
to sell plastic wares
and in a week or two if you make the charts
the girls will tear you apart
what you pay for these riches and fame
well it’s all a vicious game
what you get is the public acclaim
don’t forget who you are




     (james mcguinn, christopher hillman)

spiritual connections are the most important.
talk is cheap.
— rowdy superstar
the two wolves

an old cherokee told his grandson, “my son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all. one wolf is evil - he is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, and ego.
the other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. this same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.” the boy thought about it and asked his grandfather, “which wolf wins?” the old man simply replied, “the one you feed.”

and there you were… a visitor. out of this world, kicked to the curb.
i said, “c’mon, let’s get outta here.”




     (kristeen young)

FEMALE IS NOT A CATEGORY. EVEN PIANO PLAYING FEMALE IS NOT A MUSICAL CATEGORY. JUST LIKE ANOTHER RACE IS NOT A MUSIC CATEGORY. JUST LIKE SEXUAL PREFERENCE IS NOT A MUSIC CATEGORY.
What year is this?
— kristeen young
those who dance are considered insane by those who can’t hear the music.
— george carlin
[…] the shame of going to gigs where the audience is watching an act thru the camera on their iphone rather than experiencing the physical vibes
infront of them.
— fred butler
My childhood was a fairytale with its Heaven and Hell. Just as the sad memories shaped me so did the sublime. I spent my most formative years living with my father on his vast farm named Unicorn Farm, which spread a thousand acres embracing ordered orchards where the horses galloped; a swamp bristled with ancient gnarled gothic grey trees, lotuses and skirts of pale green algae; the pine forests where black fox squirrels and bobcats lived among the carnivorous plants and lady slippers orchids and the rusty metallic garden of disused junk metal that looms in my memories like a Max Ernst nightmare. This was my refuge and i shared it with my many friends; my obsession; my birds! I was content in my loneliness, constantly drawing in my watchtower treehouse or going on photography adventures with my camera but my father indulged my obsession and it grew to a vast population of diverse species. I had emus, peacocks of white and blue, a trio of mute swans, pheasants, geese, ducks, pigeons and parrots; they all roamed free except for the parrots and emus who had spacious homes built for them and were attended by their ardent devotee. Each spring i would be up and out at dawn’s mist to collect the eggs which were incubated. The hatchlings imprinted on me, i was their parent and upon maturity, running free they still followed me. Birds led me to music, birds were very present in my baptism as a poet, birds taught me to make friends with people, eventually.
— ebe oke
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