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Where we were headed, we already knew. So off we went, gleaming, in another direction. Thus we went childishly to the moon. The journey, after all, we had already begun in our future days of yore, and elsewhere we had already wandered labyrinthinely, from discovery to discovery, in an immense wandering. But what we would find on the moon, we had no idea: only and solely rhythm, feverish but subdued, to measure our breath. Not a voice, not an intrusion, in the icy fabric that enveloped us, and from which our sound was now increasingly enwrapped. The voice we had, again and forever, lost. We managed, rolled up in swinging acid sound carpets, leaving ourselves to wander in music, come on. A living rhythm, ours, of mechanical motion the heart now and forever pumped: that involuntary muscle someone called Jaki Liebezeit. I couldn't say, we didn't speak among us. Astonished, we only played. Our hypnosis, a ritual. Our ritual, an eternal repetition. We left behind, with dust in our eyes and the moon still at its zenith, all that we didn’t need.
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