Sixpeaks

Take a single frame, a cinema, the dark, the hum of the projector. Take a photograph, black and white, hanging on the wall of your grandmother’s old bedroom. Take a street, a woman, a lens and one shot. Then take the human body, liver and lungs and heart. And the feelings it cannot name and names anyway, every time. Take pain and care, medicine and prayer. Take the word, the letter, the page. Take Freud and Lacan, Spike Lee and Paolo Virzì, Saramago and Charlie Kaufman.

Take all of it. Pour it into a bottle forty years old. Run up the stairs of an old Sicilian building until you reach the roof. Then lean out, look at the world from above, carry the bottle past the railing and let it drop.

That sound — glass on asphalt, the crash of something breaking apart, the ring of being free — that sound is our sound. We were born out of that sound. That sound is what we are.