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The video was filmed on a Tuesday night before the so called “lockdown light”. Things we remember: 

⫸ Matti being a real hero for saving us from our certain deaths by carrying the burning tube TV outside. No joke! 
⫸ Thomas’ Jazzmaster falling in the last minute of the shoot and thus now being officially road worn. Thankfully it is alive and well.
⫸ Domi cooking a gigantic pot of chili sin carne the night before to get those precious tin cans. The chili tasted delicious and was eaten in several sittings. PM for recipe.
⫸ Manu not getting any high score because he actually sucks at Tetris. Obviously cause the Game Boy has no Power Glove support. Will happily stick with playing guitar instead. 

Special thanks to our good friend Pascal for taming the wild steadycam beast all night long. Well done!

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We were adolescents once:
High strung and strung out.
Now there’s a glass of water on my bedside table,
No more empty bottles in the sink.
I’d have you a thousand ways and this is one of them,
But I still like to reminisce.

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I work in a nursing home, right?

I work with nude bodies every day, I see the scars of age and wear.

Trophies of a life well lived

Scars on their knees from their 4th knee replacement, a breast missing from a cancer scare, scars on their hips and back and chest and everywhere.

I see worn tattoos with ink fading, a sultry sailor woman, a name rendered illegible, a gorgeously colored flower and a smiling happy face.

I see skin that folds like leather, skin that tears like paper, covered in sun spots or pale so veins look like they run right on the skin. I see skin that’s plush and covered in stretch marks and skin that’s covered in cellulite and skin that’s covered in bruises from insulin needles. I see skin that hides nothing, that drapes over bones like a velvet curtain, you can make out the shapes of scapula, the shape of spines, you can see the round disk of a pacemaker jutting below the collarbone.

I see faces covered in laughter lines, lips crinkled from nights sucking on a straw in the soda shop, eyes trained on the young soldier across the table, I see forehead wrinkles from surprise to anger, I see crows feet from warm smiles and family dinners.

I see fingers crooked like tree branches and knuckles swollen from use– either from twisting the tire iron at the mechanics shop or from knitting that lovely scarf for your sister for her 50th birthday.

I see all these lovely, lovely details when I look at my patients, so tired and bored and lonely.

They’ll dare to say things like “oh, I look awful”

Or “I used to be so pretty when I was young.”

It breaks my heart. I want to place tiny little butterfly kisses on all these details– details they’ll never see with their aged eyes and cataracts, but mostly because they look in the mirror and see a tired body that is not what it once was. Bright blue eyes clouded, once-brown hair now white. Skin supple and warm and lively, legs that could run and skip and do cartwheels in the grass that now ache at the idea of even standing.

I want so badly to say “you’re still so beautiful,” and sometimes I do, but they just laugh. They don’t understand how much I love them.

Because it’s those bodies, it’s those details that overwhelm me, that make me yearn for the days where I too am old and gray. For the days where my body tells a story. For a life well-lived.

I can’t grasp preserving your body while you’re young, not doing things to secure a future flawless, with no laughter lines, no crows feet, no scars and no arthritis.

I’d much rather be a well-loved book, bound in leathery flesh worn by tender hands, each page a freckle, each character a scar, skin thin and revealing my organs like a glass automaton,

Than make a pretty corpse.

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Small poem written by :)

ps. i have no idea if what i wrote is true, i myself am still in my youth so im not sure hehe :)))

Youth. The days when we were able 

to do anything we liked. Small plant.

When others opinions weren’t 

Important. No. Maybe it was.

The days when we burned the 

Midnight oil, to finish overdue

Tasks. Perturbed. The days we 

Began thinking of our future, funny.

Making mistakes. Blaming others. 

Enjoying everyday with an easy mind.

Beautiful. Beautiful it was. The plant

Started blooming its flowers.

The days when you were scared to be 

different. You would try your best to fit 

into society. Pathetic. If only then, someone 

told me that flowers bloom at their own pace.

I may have bloomed my flowers slower

Then others. But I know, that

My flowers are the prettiest.

Elegant. Immature. Beautiful.

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