Last night I listened to old and beautiful music, and the times came back so fresh that I shut it off. Not a night for nostalgia, for this oneness.
But when I thought enough about those times, wasn't I always pedaling away, missing something, partially present? Haven't I always ached? Maybe it's not a feeling that can be chased off but one to carry, from this age to the next, from here to there, them to me and back to them. A part of me.
Vingt-Sept: Martin Solveig Et Dragonette, "Hello"