WHEN WE WERE YOUNG, SKYFALL was the rarest thing our elders ever talked about. We occasionally visit the village to say HELLO to old friends. Memory keeps playing back our old childhood story, making it alive in our hearts. I recall playing my head off, TURNING TABLES upside down, cracking our ONE AND ONLY moulded hearth. But one absurd thing I used to attempt was SET FIRE TO THE RAIN and watch fruitlessly to see it burn. Whenever father caught me, he would give me a touch of the long, old leather belt that hung at the far end of his room. I remember begging him every time to go EASY ON ME, but HE WON'T GO AWAY. RUMOUR HAS IT that our HOMETOWN GLORY is now a facade, and I don't think that SOMEONE LIKE YOU will believe that without seeing for yourself, and join those rumour bearers in CHASING PAVEMENTS at the city. I still have MY SAME spark for you, like that of childhood. But how can I MAKE YOU FEEL MY LOVE when you leave me ROLLING I...