I’ve a theory of ghosts and I’m a monster to girls - I stick in their heart like [bad word] spur. But I’ve a theory of ghosts : they’re alive and we’re all dead; that they’re trying to tell us that it’s this way around. And I’ve a theory of girls : they always seem to leave in the Spring, as if they know that it hurts more to carry a heartbreak through the Summer. In the calendar storm, I circled a day and tried to hold on. And in the last powercut, I whispered her name ‘til the lights came on. Smoked my Indian pipe. Listened to static, the snow on the wire. Smoked my Indian pipe. Listened to static, the snow on the wire. I have one photograph that captures her smile but I don’t have a tape of her laugh. Watercolours can’t help me.