For the time being, when the bullets still fly by on the blazing notes, those that only awaken to the sound of the craftsman, it is only right to jot down some words. The poetic words of Pierre Lapointe, for example, or those exhumed by Eddy De Pretto on youth or even Zola Jesus on melancholy. As for the others, they are more subdued, but still as beautiful. We’ll continue with heavy hearts, guided by Phoebe Bridgers’ “Smoke Signals” she paints in the distance, ancestrally, as if to show us their magnitude. Their urgency. Words or signs. Does it even matter.
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