Never.ending.story.

History repeats.

History repeats.

History repeats.

History repeats.

History repeats.

Funeral of weddings. Wedding of funerals.

There was a game we used to play! History repeats itself. Me and every time one different player. Sometimes an old player comes back for one more game. It's only me that always stays in the game. My cards on the table. My thoughts down inside. (My) childish dreams cried out loud.

It is so simple when it comes to asking what brings two people together. It's so simple when it comes to asking what breaks them apart. It's so wingless when it's about you. It's so intense when it's about me.

Everybody laughs out joy when one new person is born. Everybody cries when one person closes its eyes forever. The beginning of one love always celebrated. Its end eternally grieved.

My beginnings always reach their ends, ends followed by new beginnings, beginnings followed by the same old ends, ends followed by other new beginnings, beginnings followed by their ends........

This is the game. Every round is different. Am I winning? Every round ends. I could believe the game itself would end, hopeful like a child, when my player would stay, and never raise up from the chair he is never to sit on again. Until then the game stays alive.

This fucking game: the need of someone.the loss of someone.

Team Operation 4

Learning to LET GO.

It's amazing how sometimes a handtouch can give them angel wings.

It's amazing how two people can think one of each other at the same time, listening to the same album of manu chao.

It's amazing how one can feel when the other one thinks of him.

It's amazing how a simple look in the other's eyes can bring up on his lips the more sincere smile.

It's not amazing though how people abandon their deepest true feelings deceiving purity of their soul, buying certainty and common while selling hopes, emotions, freedom, love.

It's amazing how silly one could be thinking that these angel wings don't fly away as soon as they they start to fly. It's amazing how much I see this as a weakness. It's amazing how weak someone should be to say I LOVE YOU out of commodity. Now,

let go of these hands, braveheart.

Happy endings are just stories that haven't finished yet

Soundtrack: Tori Amos, Siren. Recommended volume 29. Final cutout. Retro...perspective: start movie, play movie, pause, rewind, climax, one more character, end movie, rewind, fast forward, stop play, burn, send.

It is a state of fact clearly certified that there is a certain reiteration in the experiences that form altogether the life of a human being. Similitude in meanings, the same things we might find in them...the shape of their smile, her cat walk and the same disguised get-to-know-and-conquer game, the same passion, uttering, different masks. States we feel, things we do all and over again in different ways, in different circumstances, with different others.

It would be far from truth not to acknowledge the desire to re-live some of the things we do or to continue some of the things started, in the hope that the intensity of the way they happened for the first time, might repeat itself in a future encounter. But this should be considered rather a weakness of ours, one of the ones most hard to overcome. I certainly cannot deny the possibility that one more opportunity to continue same games could be fruitful on same levels, but most probably these are exceptions, surely belonging to strong players. The need for extreme emotion and adrenaline cries out in each of us, more or less visible depending on the individual self, and sometimes the desperate way of fulfilling it, is establishing the next meeting with the one/ones whose presence near you made possible the explosion of crazy butterflies in your stomach. Still, there is no doubt about the weak percent of that to happen. Just like a bet, with tough stakes. However nature seems to be quite helpful, for time and space don't always offer second chances, or at least help in reducing the possibility for them to happen. Second chances described as the mere illusions of naive people that a feeling could be lived over and over again.

I didn't ask his name, because that wouldn't have mattered. Probably it would have been no more than a social practice to associate the person with a superficial identity offered by his name. I didn't ask for his phone number or other contact details, so that to ensure the impossibility to continue a story that has consumed itself at an unimaginable level of pleasure, risk and vulnerability. Long stories reduce intensity; intensity unfortunately underestimated by most. It is as if you make the second part of a movie with great raking. Most of the time, it is banal, ordinary, resuming the same content in unworthy forms. Obviously, anyone bright would reckon that what it happens is soon forgotten if the way it happens is not catchy enough.

Living a life is so much similar to making a movie. Finding a great circumstance, the best characters, build a story, editing, randerize, watch back what you've done, recall it for a few moments, burn the cd with the movie and store it somewhere in a dust drawer in the back of your mind. Then move along, instead of building part 2, find a new idea, a new context, a new character and build something new.

Just 'vama veche', on 5th July.

End track.