Another dreary December day during which
closed winter windows keep my mind incubated.
Outside, twisted black branches reach across
a cloud covered sky, creating inverted Unknown Pleasures
artwork.
Mundane spikes of sound interrupt my stasis:
cars, dogs, sirens, planes, trains.
But then a solitary songbird breaks the din
with a distinct tone: Ian Curtis perched on
melancholy.
In this moment, I realize reincarnation
is not a rebirth but a transmigration of mood.
I could call out when the going gets tough
Things that we've learnt are no longer enough
No language - just sound - that's all we need know
To synchronize love to the beat of the show
- Ian Curtis
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