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mm mm mmm something moth with eyes as wings. As American girl you probably know that there is place in New York called Rockaway Beach. Folks like to take long walks there, breathing in the steel-gray gloom. Unlike the famous song by Ramones leads you to presume, the sun hardly ever shines at Rockaway Beach. But do not blame the sun. Be thankful to the clouds for the beautiful moment by the sea in complete solitude. The sea merges in with the sky to form one steel-gray wall. It is hard to see where one starts and the other ends. It storms in as one distorted and ambient wall of mass, that rolls over you like a harbinger of some great flood. It grabs soul and washes it away. It is not words or not even poetry. It is music; it does not explain, it is. Pure and raw emotion. Perhaps you like the honesty of music? It has been said: of that of which you can not speak of, you must remain silent. Or just music? As substitute maybe. And please do not try to understand it. Please do not like music. Abandon it altogether. Hate it. Like different sounds produced by different animals, birds, trees, fields of corn, wind and the ocean. Either by themselves or in conjunction. Going against common sense the feeling of liking music, in most cases, has very little to do with music itself. It is rather that music seems to act as a temporary filler to a inner void. In any case, it is in actuality more of a distortion leading you away from your inner self, than any kind of vortex pulling to inner depths. At night it is more frightening to listen to music, because the eyes do not see. At night it is more lovely to listen to music, because the eyes do not see. At night you can hear the music better, because the eyes do not see. At night you can not run away from music, because the eyes do not see. You can only clumsyly wobble away like drunken sailor or Walkind Dead person. It is similar to some more carnal portions of human existence, it is the search for the right frequency. It is trigger of a revolver that ignites the machinery, and end result is a flame. And there is no flame without what, and no what without a what. Fire? Spirit? In ancient times the blacksmiths were thought to be the big brother's of the shamans, and their forges were like wombs. The air blowing in to a forge, was enhanced breathing, the language of the carnal. And the sound of a gun firing is the exclamation mark to my point.
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