La terrase, wet sand y saltamontes

It was everywhere. I could only sit there, crouched, with my feet falling asleep under my legs and not being able to tear my eyes away from blinking colours and dancing people and the violent sway of Yann's hair as he pured his existence into that powerful violin, as he moved around the stage possesed by the strings of a cream-coloured guitar, as he closed his eyes and murmured in french;

et la vie

se tourne

rousse.

And it was one of those things you found yourself swimming in, the tremor of the bass caressing the inside of your head and the incessant beat of the drums sending electricity waves under your feet and I thought about everything around me, the ghosts from the past that I'm leaving behind without ever leaving them, really, and maybe dancing on the rooftops of tokyo and chocolate trails in Europe and crying in the backstore because I couldn't save another animal and some unknown man's long fingers trailing my tattoos and hearing the rumor of the sea.

And I couldn't help gasping out loud and crying as that violin, some wild animal come to life made from wishes and wood, sent dancing figures of madness behind my eyes, because in that moment only the notes existed, no biking under the heat listening to my summer playlist (My, what a good day for a walk outside), no hoping to see longish figures (even if I did and didn't feel as bad so everything will be ok); while the violin screamed and whispered, the smell of dog hair was gone with the dirt under my feet, Jack Nimble, yellow contemptuous gazes and sweating and working and grasshoppers.

It feels great to be
(musicshivercoloursdawnmuttsseasisterdreamsanimesexypunksandeverythingnice)

Alive.