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Rating: I read somewhere that the last thing Nick Drake did before opening the exit door from this desolate earth was to say goodbye to his guitar.
He picked it up and dedicated a song to it, an American blues tradition. His family was asleep, and no one paid attention to that gesture, to those notes, no one listened to them.
Many years have passed since then.
In my small way, it's been a while since I listened to that kind of music. Maybe it's because I no longer find my spirits low enough to do so.
Or maybe because some time ago I decided that I was truly bored with its modern versions with modern, plastified melancholy.
But now something new has happened.
Nick Drake got up from his bed in the woods, this evening, somewhere. He gave a huge yawn.
The colorful cloak of youth, which always flies in the air in search of someone to love forever, and who can bear the weight without being crushed by it, rested on his shoulders, to keep him warm, after so many years.
He started walking along the road home.
No one expected him anymore.
He climbed the stairs that lead to his room and entered. He picked up The Myth of Sisyphus from the nightstand, closed it, and put the pills aside.
The cloak embraced him tightly, happily.
Then, suddenly, it flew away out the window, towards a new day.
Nick picked up the guitar again, started playing again.
All this when the notes of "O Death" began to float in the air of my house...
"O Death
Please consider my age
Please don't take me
At this stage"
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