When I was 6 my parents enrolled me in a music school. I absolutely hated it. By the time I was 16 I knew all the classics and I was still not in love. It goes quite well together. Then, as the first hairs appeared on my cheeks, I realized I didn't care about music and that I never would.
Then I met the girl. And I met the grace, the crack under my feet, the ecstasy of glorious presence within and without me. And the drunken love of friendship. And the musicality it all bears.
It was Monday and I accompanied my friend to a therapy. Her parents died in an accident when she was 8. The skin of her face was totally burned. Later that day I had my first beer ever and got sick drunk after two bottles. I went to school barely keeping my pace. Latin teacher told me to go home but I preferred to throw up in a toilet. Too bad she got expelled from school after being caught in the act of overcoming language barriers with a french professor in one of the cabinets. The guy ended up as a waiter on a cruise ship.
This is what you get here. Songs thrown up in the abysmal face of sewer of life. And I still don't care about the music. More than ever actually. It's the noise I need to bring you to the saturated silence. To the unbelievable encounter. Hope you lend your hand.
