Outside of music, everything, even loneliness and ecstasy, is a lie. She is just two, but improved. (Emile Cioran, That damn I , trans. Rafael Panizo).
When I tire of all, when my legs no longer hold me when I will be locked up in my room and nothing I care nothing moves me, when you have no cravings or desire to even think when you see strange lights and nights are all white, then I still feel like listening to music, to feel, to miss through it, passing it through me, to bright regions. Dizziness sense, the notes down, dark tops and all its terrors, terrors and doubts, all accumulated in the static and beautiful music of Morton Feldman, in the gloomy landscapes of John Cage, the pain endured by Schubert, he knows that the end and continues to sing, it does go up to the timeless place ...
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