Climbing north, falling south

A sorry sir with a sorry song

21 years old

Female

Bob Dylan

... has atrocious fingers, a vivid mind and no sense of humor. He is often seen with a mustache (old mustard in fact), moving his eyes clockwise over daily cartoons in free newspapers blown across the city, or simply feeding ducks in a park near his trailer. He is decent and loves roadmovies. He entertains a crowd easily, he loves drive-through cinemas and drive-through brothels - he doesn't catch the gist of either of them. When sitting alone in his favourite restaraunt (in the booth he always occupies from 1-3 pm, requesting country pie), he draws matchstick-men on napkins and plays drums with the silverware. He uses too many words for too many thoughts.

Beck Hansen

... looks like a farmer with no good weather. He wears diamond-strings as shoelaces and counts his peas before he eats them. Making wild guesses about his guitars, he is considered a clairvoyant knowing his instruments off by hand and heart. He doesn't have a license, so he goes by foot. He cannot listen to his own albums, so he plays Money Mark instead - 'What's the difference?'. On his voyages, he usually notices conspicuous and perculiar facts about his mother-country; he cannot write 'conspicuous' and 'fathom' without peeking at this beloved 1800ish dictionary, his attorney advised him to use one since misspelt words are trademarked. Speaking of bad grammar, his name was misspelt on his wedding invitation. Made him write a song.

Badly Drawn Boy

... suffers from severe mood swings. When he admits having mood swings, he thinks of swings and pendulums, old women with crystal balls and thunder. He has a neurotic way of speaking, but most people confuse it with mumbling, that's why they avoid listening to him. 2 secrets slumber deep inside of him: a) he is alexithymiac, b) he is in masterful control of origami (oregano as he calls it). He has 3 different breathing patterns and he often complains about hearing problems. His favourite meal is take-away sushi from Mark's & Spencer - 4,99 Pounds, he best he can afford. His last record sold like stinky dog-poo. He likes breathing against windows and writing his name into the white cloud, complaining afterwards that everything has vanished.

David Bowie

... has no past. And no future. He tends to think of himself as a ghost who is haunting ticking clocks, but the modern age shuns his hobby. The police laughs at him because he listens to music in his car, windows up, system down; he is a playboy from the old days. Originally, he wanted to become a playwright, but his righteousness was missing in the farce. Browsing through libraries and pawn shops, he finds new ideas that do not take him by the hand, but by the heart. He often contemplates about the pattern of paper, empty from and untroubled by his handwriting. His biggest lie is inspiration. Now, he is an aging connoisseur of pop music, Californian wine and the number Pi.

Will Sheff

... loves to shoplift vegetables. Only small ones, but still, his hands slides out of his pocket and off with the pineapples. He thought his only talent was reading, until he discovered the true beauty of writing. He frequents a place where old rowdies tell tales of their old days, he listens closely, nose in their breaths, sieving their expressions. His mother looks like him, or he looks like his mother. His life is a matter of eavesdropping. When he was a kid, he thought a DJ was in charge of the music in the supermarket; the day he applied for this position was the worst in his life. He lives out of boxes, a green one carries his clothes, a red one his razors, a blue one his jeans. Every morning in bed, he counts backwards from 100 to 11, opening his eyes when he reached 43. He moved to Texas because there's an X in the name, a mysterious junction to him.