Transcript

NICK DRAKE:

This is the library of ice. A high security auditorium of silence far below zero. An archive of cold that keeps me as I am and reminds me of home now that it is going, going. I am a long story, 10,000 feet long, 500,000 years old. A chronicle of lost time back to the first dark, too dark for telling.

I am every winter's fall. I am the keeper of the air, of every vanished summer. I distill lost atmospheres pressed into ghosts kept close to my cold, cold heart. And as for you, what story would you like to hear on your two feet tracking the snow, two by two, two by two, two by two?

Here is the dust and music of your brief cities. Here is the ash and smoke. Here are your traffic jams and vapour trails. Here are your holidays in the sun and your masterpieces and your pop songs.

Here are your first cries and last whispers. Here is where it went right and where it went wrong. Easy come, easy go. So I know why you slice moon after moon from me, holding each fragile face up to your search lights while you measure and record the tiny cracks and snaps of my melting mysteries. Because you know you are the people who have changed nature and now you are on your own.

I have no more to tell. No questions, please, about the future, for now the great narrator, silence, takes over. Listen carefully to her story for you are in it.