Listen to the silence        an extract from a permanently unfinished        manuscript entitled "Out there is moving        but I'm still in here".        Paul Morley        London 23/10/97 And so, here. And so, to make some promises that cannot be kept. And so, to speak. And so, wonder. I am wondering what to write about Joy Divison, or to be exact, what exactly to write about Joy Division this time. How exact can I be? How exact should I be? I've been writing about Joy Division all my adult life; all my writing life; all my life. In many ways (and this is one way) everything I've ever written has been about Joy Division. (Let me explain, eventually... if I can... if I should...).    Everything they make me feel - or suggest I feel - is a central metaphor for everything I feel, about me, the world, music, emotion, love, death, time, God, and so on. And so, now I come to think about it, this is how exact I am going to be...    And so, in the ways (count the ways) that pop music opens you up and explains things (and t/fore closes you down and unexplains things, which is so part of the still moving thrill that pop zips and unzips in its own time and space) then shall we say for the sake of this promise that when I was fourteen Marc BoIan with a wave of his magic wand showed me the light and then at another age Joy Division - only my age, the fuckers, what did they know of this world let alone any other(s) - showed me with a dizzy- ing dip of the mind the dark.    And so here are the extremes of pop: the masking of the world of appearances, and the unmasking.