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We are such forgetful creatures. We need to be reminded, always and constantly.

It was too early for a drink. You were absorbed by the dark hospitality of a tavern without a name. And in passing I recognized your voice, with it distinct, uncontrolled oscillations, comic vibrations of tragic proportions.

You are a harlequin. More sophisticated than a clown. Resourceful and witty. A wonderful trickster in your own way.


It was if your festive, shining robes flowed into each other, seamless, and, faced with the same uncertainty, were folding you into each other.

While we were talking, your feet kept playing with each other, seeking your attention.

One can never have enough friends.

A sword continued to pierce your heart.

It was always quarter past eleven, when I came to see you. The birds kept looking at us, without making a sound. You had removed the weights, meant to change the wall clock. In your mind time had stopped to exist. It was an unnerving experience.

When light breaks through, at certain time of the day, a makeshift becomes a collage, a painting, a vision.

Silent witnesses of a difficult past.

Unusual suspects.

The weight of the world.

By hand.

In broken German you shared with us your love for the Frankfurt School and your worry about the reification of the musical subculture.

I noticed your heart dancing on your shoulder.

When you turned your back to me and started to pray, you gave me time to reflect on why I have come.

It was both a song of love and a lament. But I only noticed later.

You needed three cushions, you said. And I counted them.

There are different kind of survivors. Only few know how to give themselves an ever changing edge.

You needed time to think.

I learned how to honor a cornerstone, the beginning of a new home.

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