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Rating: I was listening to No. 1 and Purple on the playlist the night before hearing the news.
Suddenly, that slow and sensual sequence of notes started.
I read that you found those words in the midst of solitude.
It spoke of a love disappointment.
Of a woman waiting for you behind the door, a princess who left your life.
In some way, everything you wrote was about me. I would listen to your words and think: "You nailed it again, Scott."
Many knew it would end like this, they said you were a famous self-destructive hothead.
But, I wonder: How many of those people have had a chat with you that wasn't for an interview?
How many had the courage to tell you: "Well Scott, you can't blame the band for their decision. You behaved childishly. Why don't you apologize and see how things go?"
Dean, Robert, and Eric didn't hate you. You could tell from their look at yet another question about you, their bitterness. Like that on a father's face who slaps his son.
A while ago, the day after you left, they posted a video showing the techniques used in the studio and the arrangement of this piece. So called because it was written in the homonymous city.
At a certain point, after removing the guitar and orchestral section, they stopped to listen to your voice in front of the mixer.
Only your voice, suffering and cautious, recorded 17 years prior.
You could read their faces,
as if they had heard it for the first time.
They exchanged some glances and remained silent.
They were listening to a clear, pure sound, but at the same time filled with melancholy and darkness.
You hid it, roaring with that proud look that you had recently abandoned.
Few like you have given me goosebumps, and I, even knowing I'm foolishly writing to myself tonight, thank you for being, in some way, by my side with your voice.
Not for giving me answers you wouldn't have been able to give.
But for placing a hand on my shoulder.
Is it better to lie in the darkness or stand under a sun you don't feel on your skin?
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