Julie Christie out of time like colour on the monochrome, leads Billy in the night to the train he cannot catch. Her Liz, free spirit, escaping death with every trip to London while Billy cannot rise to life mired in his Ambrosia. I have a hunch that I’m Billy and you’re Liz with your Julie Christie wide mouth and shining eyes, Liz’s let the devil take them slant on the every day. I’m Prime Minister of the world I’ve built to ward against the world and there’s reason upon reason that I stay imagining you will do the same. My Liz, I wish I could be on that train you take so effortlessly every day you cool, smoking sophisticate; I have diplomats to brief and must meet with thieves who peddle time they have procured from me and there are armies I must greet. Billy never took the train even though he had his bags and the love he craved. His Liz became something the night-time claimed, a bird whose song the distance took away. But I aim to bury Billy, and if you will wait, carry all the things that I’ve made to that restless place where colour and black and white are interlaced. It’s strange, don’t you think, that in such restlessness you find the thread that has unravelled and can remake the picture with your art and for me there is no thread pulled loose and yet the picture falls apart?