Wu Lyf

It has always been better not to talk about WU LYF, to experience it rather than talk about it. Words killed it. It had to be felt. 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 into the attic above a friend's bookshop, behind unfamiliar instruments and familiar emotions, and began to play — timidly at first, but with open hearts and minds, in search of new forms freed from what had gone before.

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

Raw and ecstatic, the fire transfigured. We don't know what it will become. You don't dig up the seed to see if it's growing. You wait. You trust. You know the tree by its fruit. Our hands know what our minds have forgotten.

It's something that was always there, waiting for us to remember it. A new life is beginning.