Hüsker Dü
Warehouse: Songs and Stories

I have always been afraid of the passage of time; every time I feel like I've made a step forward, the world has turned around me and made me fail. I feel cold knuckles and my spirit evaporating in the glacial hardness of my heart; I fossilize myself in familiar constructions and the randomness of circumstances without thinking too much. I feel the need to explode and understand if my moments are really important, if the people are significant, if the years are vital.
I walk lost in reality, seeing only the void; my eyes crave to be fed with absence, my mouth is sluggish with satiety, and my adolescence is just a pile of rubble in the outskirts of my mind. I give up slipping into a thick and fibrous shell and try to return to my bleeding limbs, thinking about the most beautiful moments of solitude in my life:

DO YOU REMEMBER?

I remember everything, especially the special people; I do not forget.
I think of my 28 years and feel it's necessary to honor a work that turns 30. A whole and fundamental number for many dirty little souls navigating the more or less deep ether. Tomorrow, the 30 years will be stained with disparity, and anniversaries must, despite everything, remain candidly full like a zero.
The car speakers are now busted, and I swear to God I love this crackling, unwanted, hypnotic buzz, as nostalgic as it is warm. The almost frozen beer and the almost full moon, imperfections that no longer matter, I drink and observe. I try to imagine myself in another place and time, with icy alcohol in my throat and an acid stomach, trying to spit the existential discomfort as far away as possible, but the bile grows, and I just look for a simple way to take the wheel and escape far away.

I abandoned friends who wouldn’t have helped me but only drowned me, I feel like I'm in a trench on the Cansiglio perched under branches with scorching whistles above my head. I fell into this vortex and am only looking for a handhold to emerge, to resurrect, and not to sink. Like slides, visions appear in my mind and kill me every time; an invisible eraser tries to eliminate them, sensitive herbs try to bury them.
So it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it goes, so it will go with no more meaning; pronouncing it will become a novelty instead of a necessity, announcing it will become a reality instead of a dream, instead of a nightmare, instead of my current condition.

And so, I come to the moment of writing, a review? A thought? A story? I'm talking about life, mine, yours, and everyone's. Familiar words, situations we may have all experienced more or less similarly, but in all these moments there were Mould, Hart, and Norton, true angels, androgynous beings albeit of extreme manly masculinity, channelers of frustrations.

I will always remember, and I will never forget.