This hippy bullshit, this veneration of the tree’s, this holy silence in the stillness of the water, the magnitude of the immeasurable that shatters the instruments in my hand.

The waiting of the thunder to break this fast, to recognise that sound as coming home, the understanding that what is within dances with what is not, and maybe there is no difference between the two at all. This secret language carried in the wind and hidden in the leaves of these venerated tree's.
To stand in the centre of the storm with every drop of rain as a reminder that there is something more, that magic is real, that any abyss can be crossed by the beat of a heart and that maybe, just maybe, it isn't a good idea to bomb the moon.

This hippy bullshit, the only words that have kept me alive, that when I speak I move the Earth, and when the Earth moves I keep still and listen, this supernatural feedback loop that has gotten me where I am today, and where I am today, I still dance.

I hope that one day you do too.

This hippy bullshit, you should give it a try, you’ve got nothing left to lose.