What haunts me is not exactly the absence of literal space so much as a deep craving for metaphorical space: release, escape, some kind of open-ended freedom.

In the early 1970s. 1971, &#39;72. The rooms were closing down, record labels weren&#39;t signing acoustic acts any more. Although they had been pretty much been getting out of that for some time before that.

They are ruby-colored, aren’t they?” he said. “Well, they’re red,” said Magrat. “Is red all right?” “They’ve got to be red.” All the other dwarfs nodded. “It’s no good if they’re not red.” Magrat gave him a blank look and shut the door.

You dig me, don't you? A little boy, he can play like he's a fireman or a cop

Written By Tom Robbins

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