In 1985, I placed a bet and lied, losing all that I had, at least with all my heart intact. In 1985, Orwell was proved right, Torville and Dean's bolero, redundant as a sad welsh chapel. In 1985, in 1985. So God is dead, like Nietzsche said, superstition is all we have left. Circle the wagons, we're under attack, we've realised there's no going ( Read more... )