Translated to English: Elizabeta Bakovska
Sometimes the road is the best meditation – travels that never stop, kilometres, two hundred kilometres per hour and landscapes that change so fast that you can not even notice them. The mid surrenders, the mid becomes a line that fades away in the middle of the road. Quiet enough for the memory to become foggy.
This mind has found the meditation on the terrace. The terrace itself is its definition. There I have built a viewpoint. If I look well, I can see what I need. From the terrace, I manage to feel your place and everything that I need is silence and real music.
In your corner, where there used to be a street, there is only Ben Allison’s contrabass. The dilemmas of the seasons have turned it into a silver thing that shines. The stars look different when you look at them from this place. Especially if you do this sometime between 3:30 and 4:15 AM.
It’s time to end or bark at ballads, trying to write a better one than the one that I wrote long ago, at the time when I did not compete. At the time when death competed with the best of us.