Pink Floyd
The Dark Side of the Moon

THE REVIEW

Riding the wave. Staying balanced. Mentally unbalanced.

God took the supreme Light and hurled it into a prism. Everything that happened afterward is written on stone tablets and will remain in the collective memory, remain like a Comedy, like the insignificant Idylls of a certain Giacomo, He who whined because he lacked company.
But this is just a stroll on frost-covered grass, the sun is still far away.

Year 1987. "The Wall" had passed, but not fallen for me. The final cut had already happened and someone with unshareable and nihilistic ideas (in a sense), who went by the name of Roger Waters, had left the most beloved and well-known psychedelic group (not necessarily the best, a consideration made while looking at a cover with a muscle and a small inscription on it).
Again, year 1987. I open the dusty shelf and smile as caresses go and come through the gloomy air of my room. An old (well-aged like wine, or even better) LP, also dusty. Simple. Black. A color on the left, a prism in the center, a mystical rainbow on the right. The rest, space. Ozone hole. Hole's ozone.

White brick of about forty-three minutes. Divided into nine parts, which seems inappropriate to indicate through the hated track by track.
"Speak To Me".

"I've been mad for fucking years... very hard to explain why you're mad, even if you're not mad..."

Yes, and explain to me what this madness is. Aren't we humans all mad? Some don't want to admit it, others are closed off and impossible to see by all keen eyes. Tailored madness. Just to record an album and then we go back to being normal. Failed experiment, Waters. You got worse and created your little jewels. Oh poor you, you became alienated and mad, you did it for us, the unaware public. You deserve an ambiguous thank you.

Us and them. Time (it never stops, does it! Just like the bus in the morning...). Tempo tissues. Cold. Madness.
Ignoble association of words. Words associated like a dog's mess, perhaps. Without apparent meaning. Oh come on...

Irony of fate, today is Friday the thirteenth. Or maybe not. Time.

One day you get up and in the monotonous continuation of the evening, you read this review. Which is not a review.
A jumble of carefree thoughts, the product of an unusual individual who laid the last brick a long time ago.
Not all that glitters is gold. But the only natural thing that glitters in this world is just gold.

Always dear to me was this solitary hill
And this hedge, which from so much part
Of the final horizon excludes the view.
But sitting and gazing, unbounded
Spaces beyond it, and superhuman
Silences, and profoundest peace,
I feign in my thoughts, where a moment
My heart is not afraid. And when the wind
I hear rustling through this foliage, that
Infinite silence to this voice
I go comparing; and it awakens eternity,
And the dead seasons, and the present
And living, and her sound. So through this
Vastness drowns my thought:
And sinking in this sea is sweet to me.

Eclipsed by your own shadow.
Happily.
Forgetful.
Remembering.
Exhaling.
Go.

Goodbye, and thank you for reading the words of a mental deficient.
See you, and I know that when you look at my image you'll wish you never had.
Perhaps because you will never see me? I hope.
Say hi to Gilmour, Mason, and Wright from me. And thank them for writing this album. Together with the crazy one of the moment.

There's no certainty of tomorrow.

The Dark Side Of The Moon - 1973.

PS: For DaveJonGilmour, whom I care about, here's a dedication:

US AND THEM IS THE SPACE BETWEEN THE NOTES. A NEW WAY TO CONCEIVE MUSIC.

And it's not a trivial mockery. Now vote. Right or left? Center.

Eclipse. Ulysses. Themistocles. Screw it.