I remember the first time I heard you play.
It was like a chimney that had been hidden behind a giant wall-sized painting.
It was pilfered away and blessed those thieves who collectively call themselves Obscurity.
For lifting that heavy scarlet curtain.
I remember so clearly because my family was hurting.
The night you took to the stage.
Small, unassuming though the venue was.
It felt to me like the answer to the question.
What is, what will be, whatever was.
If that isn't Lars Gane.
I don't know what Bree.
I don't know what teases truth out of a group.
Whispers loudly, I've got you.
And grips like a fever.
The muscles in the mind.
Repeating shamelessly.
You are fruition.
And I am the vine.
But I hold myself to such a term.
For you, as so lowly a neighbor.
So as me who can say no to anything.
Then I let it all out.
As we fought around and sat past each other.

That which matters.
Not that I've gotten to know you all send we're making you loud and clean by making big.
Saygd.
Thank you.
Thank you.