Wu Lyf

It has always been better not to talk about WU LYF, to experience it rather than talk about it. Words killed it. You had to feel it. Twelve years after the fire, life separated us.

We all followed different paths trying to escape the shadow cast by the brief spectacle of our youth. Then something broke. Or healed.

We settled in the attic of a friend's bookshop, behind unfamiliar instruments, familiar emotions, and we began to play, at first timidly, but with open hearts and minds, searching for new forms freed from what had come before.

Old friends with new scars, trying not to worsen yesterday's wounds. We are all surprised by the great music still playing through us, an unexpected gift after the longest exile, a glittering fragment of before, magnified by what we are today.

Raw and ecstatic, the transfigured fire. We don't know what it will become. You don't dig up a seed to see if it grows. You wait. You trust. You know a tree by its fruit. Our hands know what our minds forgot. It's something that has always been there, waiting for us to remember.

New life is coming.