61 A man kneels in front of his bookshelf- does he feel empty when the silence falls? Can we find paths within loneliness, and do we have to build them on tired chords? There were no illusions when I grew up, no angels played me distorted basslines. No cool music saved my #life when I filled my throat with cotton. Seven eight minutes later everything returns to normal. An illusion of being together is suddenly painted by coarse voices. She plays bootlegs on a cassette player to find something even more real. It creates something that chafes, but is it skin or rubber that's torn when empty voices tell the truth at the same time?
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