Heartache occasionally overwhelmed me when I was young, for the usual reasons. Overcome by the sudden stop which the loss of her forced on me, nothing could address the torpor. David Sylvian's Brilliant Trees album came to dwell there with me, offering company, not advice. His music did not provide a way out, but a way in, to the recesses of bleak sadness. Gently leading you through the cavernous depths of your stasis, it helped you feel sorry for yourself with a thoroughness that was calm, not angry. Since calmness listens, while anger transmits, a single epiphany resulted: you were no longer alone. And once your heart experienced the constructive epiphany of companionship, even the remote kind provided by a stranger's songs, a light went on; you began to query the possibility of a way out. We are all carpet crawlers; we all have to get in to get out. 25 years on, with substantial emotional success in the bag, I chanced upon this album and listened to it in the car and was powerfully reminded of the acute sensitivity of my pain, something vital, which made me smile. Brilliant Trees gave me more insight into how I felt than anything I've chanced upon since, helping my heart to acknowledge, which then invited my head to explore, so buy that album first. But buy this one too, for Forbidden Colours, an old friend, and the lyrics on Orpheus, a fresh acquaintance. These fires never stop.