We make music we exist in cyber space. Our members change. We are genderless, colourless, but we do propose ideas. One day we may materialise. But for now, we harmonise, make music, we only exist here in the digital realm. And we are working away. There is no need to fear us................. We come in peace. We are a Pop Art Pop Music metaphysical protectorate and one day we will be Popular, but we don't mind.

On such a night, We can give thanks, Let fear give way, allow your image of yourself, to get smaller, in the mirror, In your head, Your ice turns to water, your fire turns to, warmth, Let your body turn to air.

The story goes, that while they waited for news, an old clock that sat on the mantel piece in their lounge room and had not uttered a single chime for years, suddenly struck thirteen bells. They counted them. This event was closely followed by the expected phone call announcing my birth. I have no reason to think that this story isn't true.

(IN THE 60'S) ''Adults towered overhead, and the smell of cigarettes hung thick in the air. There were ceiling fans and suit cases, and women in hats and fashionable dresses. On warm days there was air-conditioning, which back then, for me, was like something from outer space. The cool air was circulated by the ceiling fans, the blades of which, only served as a reminder of the air borne greatness, yet to come. With great urgency, we would make our way through the crowd and out through another set of doors, to a small quadrangle, enclosed by a low wire fence. Through the fence, lay the wonder of the tarmac, marked with incomprehensible yellow and white lines and numbers with secret meanings. In the distance, wind socks danced atop tall metal towers, beyond which lay the run way, and the horizon, and all else that existed in world. We would cling expectantly to the fence, eyes fixed toward the east, the direction from which the object of our fascination would first appear. What started as a distant, barely audible hum slowly became engine noise, ringing out from the sky like the lowest note on a gigantic celestial piano. Then, there it would be, sunlight occasionally catching those silver wings. Soon, the shape of the aircraft could be clearly seen, still at some altitude. Ever so gracefully, it would turn, its giant wings rolling in the sky, until it was in line with the runway. Ever lower and closer, until even the square windows could be seen, it would finally touch down with a threatening roar. As the great glinting machine approached the area of tarmac that lay directly in front of us, the volume of noise became almost unbearable. The threshold of pain. I would cover my ears and breathe in the intoxicating smell of burning kerosene. Nothing else in the world smelled like a plane. '' Andrew J Pearson c 2016

A fever sometimes you just have to you just have to give in to it enter the world of fever and rest time passing not awake not really able to sleep just time passing illness passing sometimes you just have to you just have to give in to it Fever, water, pills enter the world of fever and rest of passing hours in no order no sense make a nest and rest and dream of a gentle hand in fever your body in fever your body is the universe dream of a gentle hand c Andrew J Pearson 2016