Find the memory confront it like a crime
Beat it up
Our clothes and precious things we'll leave them all behind
Just give it upForget the painful past
Let go of all you grasp
This is the last I'll ask
To meet me here at dawn
For all the distilling one does as a self-proclaimed aesthete; the collection of moments, memories, the endless yearning, what is important to me sometimes feels like it ends up as a vial of colourless liquid. Pure and precious, but ultimately cold. Still. The tremors, the rich warm tenaciousness of Bird's voice stirs this liquid, draws wide reverberating ripples from its centre. And only in these movements do I begin to detect the opalescent shimmers that escape me on darker days. Too long, it's been too long.