It would be nice to master the traditional in order to do the crazy stuff. Just like the great painters did or do. They always work on the traditional and then move to something else. To their own voice.
The architecture of the city is plural and restless. Your voice comes and goes. The sky was pale blue today. White here and there. Clouds. Whispers. Our dialog is more vivid now. I still see how intense your eyes are. You come and go from me. But I know you never really leave. At least, that is the illusion that keeps me - going? I see patterns. They make sense. Like you made sense a while ago. I can't reason with Love, can I? Love, this palpable, irrational measurement of attachment and desire. I don't know if you are the same anymore. The same I knew. Did I ever know you? It doesn't matter because you fit like a symptom fits a disease. You fit my fantasy. My fantasy was so concrete and so tangible. I play us in my head. If I had. If you had. But history doesn't rewrite itself. I can't walk down the street to try and find you. Unchanged sea. Under the same sheltering sky. I love you.
When music hits my soul. Inevitably. You are here with me and a tear drops. I'm not sure what happened to the walls. The wind is blowing and my face burns. I read your words. Your riddles. I went silent. Shocked perhaps by the audacity. It was a surprise. I have my own riddles. This. I have known this song for more than thirty years. It always touched me. Now I know why. Now that I understand the words. It makes sense. Imagine not having that love anymore. I have sounds to keep me company, like this one and this one . Pay close attention to the words. It seems like we always run in circles, doesn't it? And no, I don't want to drop you a note. Have you become single recently? Are you in town? Are you going to give me an ultimatum like the last time? Things have changed. I am tired. I am exhausted. I have no energy for games. Never have, but now. Now things are different. Time does weigh into the equation. Now that runs so deep. I do carry y...
Unresolved pain. Nostalgia. Fire. Vivid dreams at night. Immense love. I read the other day something an old friend once told me. Go back to what you were good at when you were a child. That's where your natural talent is. I go back, and so many things come up. So many interests. Infinite curiosity. I loved words when I was a child. But I also loved animals and nature. I also loved music and poetry. The beach made me go without sleep. I also loved to dance. I remember attracting people's comments while dancing at parties. Not because I was good but because I did my own thing. I also liked cooking and baking from an early age. Books were also my private world. But who am I now, forty years later? I listen to Riccardo Cocciante, and my heart fills with raw emotion. How can someone be so good and write the most beautiful songs? I need to understand Italian better, but what I know and feel with his songs is beyond anything material. The power of art has to move...
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