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Everything depends on the fact that we stumble upon our birth.
Like little pebbles we are thrown by a merciless hand into the sea of the verb "to be."
Like Holtkamp's guitaring. Small, insignificant arpeggios that descend into that dream called life.
Teeming field recordings, intrusive electronic loops, mocking harmonica lines, and an urgent sitar. What does it mean?
The pebble will sink in a moment without understanding anything.
But let's not forget the concentric waves we produce on the surface.
Our loves, our actions, our passions constantly propagate and play with the incomprehensible, make faces at the storms, touch the waves produced by other pebbles.
Like in dreams.
Like Holtkamp's guitaring. The small, insignificant arpeggios, their ebb and flow, their liquid and circular reverberations à-la Roy Montgomery.
Living is consciousness trying to decipher the absurd.
Like Holtkamp's guitaring.
Like a pebble thrown into a dream.
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