Nick Drake
Pink Moon

THE REVIEW

Hello.

I like to take risks, remain precarious, on an invisible twisted thread, which can be a blessing and a curse, of what, in a halo of subdued mediocrity, can be defined as existence, the joy that you definitely feel in knowing you're not alone at the least opportune moment, yes, that least opportune moment when the ship has left the port and increasingly becomes an undefined point on the horizon.

I drive, in the car, while I'm on foot, on a bike, because time never seems to be enough, never, never, in case it wasn't clear I don't write, maybe it could be a silent beginning.

It's 4 o'clock on a night that will enter the space of my tombstone, when time or whoever for it decides it's enough, Saints and Preachers. Politicians and Right-thinkers.

I'm running, at least I remember this, (signs of life).

The road always the same, always different, medium fast pace, typical of those in a hurry, but not too much, hurry for what, or who, is still unclear, (but at least I remember this) I'm running, I could stop to think, to laugh, to cry, but this last emotional deviation, shortly will knock at my door, and I won't be able to refuse its visit, tears are the blood of the soul.

The blood of the soul, a bluish retch of memories, and especially of you, who maybe smiles, or sleeps peacefully, or dies.

Dies.

Dies.

Dies.

I recognize that fantastically acoustic guitar, that familiar and unknown voice, beautiful and dangerous, perhaps the right thing at the wrong time?

The pressure rises, balance wavers, eyes swimming in the darkness lit by tired headlights, tired among other things, of searching for me at the bottom of an empty bottle, miserably without succeeding.

Tears.

Tears.

Tears.

The road glides quickly, but I can't brake that cardiac tremor that grips my heart, the lungs too heavy now to allow me to fly over the suffering, which rises and fills me with shit, with rancor, for what the wind has erased from my skin, that the rain has even eroded from the rocks placed by any God on the profane ground of an indigenous village, wild as our cities, delicate as open-heart surgery, meaningless like the road I travel.

Tears streak my face as I drive, the hemorrhage of the soul does not stop, in this fast night, passed on the road and who knows where, feeling alive, to the rhythm of the white line probably put as a boundary between life and death, right and wrong, black and white, or if you like, 6 and 9.

Dear Nick, I will be at your next concert, at the mercy of the God you have chosen, or who has chosen you, maybe not now, but time doesn't seem to flow in my favor. At least to thank you, with what remains of my heart, for always being there, mystically enclosed in a CD that spins endlessly in the stereo of this infernal car that takes me mile after mile to discover a bastard truth, as much as a gun pointed at your temple while you blow out the candles of your f***ing twentieth birthday.

Goodbye.