It is soulfully ennobling to heed the words, and maybe attune to the music, and then to be suddenly hit by some strange feeling that comes out of... out of nothing more, but means everything else. How he can summon and convey emotion so transcendentally, so immaterially, is beyond me. But, at certain junctures, moments of feeling leap out of his music like entirely familiar blood-sucking lizards, already under one's skin. It's more than music, it is the honour of death itself, laughing at us, as we bide away like lemmings. Like hanging chads in a drunken god's pathetic attempt to keep track of us all. Like inducements and enticements from the devil which turn out to be nothing more than vacuous promises of trumpianism.
And the consolation is - that it's all funny. It's all good. Stale, moulded bread for the homeless has become a food of the gods, for wanton ducks like you and me.
In a Philly restaurant, with friends, I was offered the, "pressed duck."
"Depressed duck? How sad!"
"Quaaaack! Quaaaack!" he pined mournfully, as much in comedy as in grief.
