The downpour on Friday, locked us in the studio. All are revelations of things that one need not say or ask and the silence between Manuel and I is the second best way to express what we both feel, what we both know the other secrets that nobody else have. Nobody knows me like him and when I arrived with new letters means that everything that is happening in my life, yours, of Sebastian or of those who know it is slowly turning into song, image for posterity, in postcard from a very specific time.
Over time I start to forget the faces gave rise to these songs and sometimes crosses my head other people and stories when we return to sound. But in the studio recording the ideas are fresh faces are live, the sensations are still new and you can almost smell the bare skin, the tiny portions of meat being left on each new wiring, fiber bitten by the same teeth that are now coupled by wheezing, becoming into phonemes sung in electromagnetism, in ones and zeros that are then music again. Volume
the guitar and put my heart to the fingers, I stood before the microphone and start to spit out the soul in every shot. Here is my therapy, my favorite toy, my alabacea probate, everything that I asked my mom when I said I wanted a little brother for not having to play football with my imaginary friend.
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