In a rundown bar, in this chilly German city's quartier latin, where speaking Latin is a fucking given if you want to know how girls look underneath their outrageously short skirts (they're not just picky about our dicks), I was sitting on the ground, deliberately oblivious of the fact that others had left their uncomfortably human trails here: spittle, blood and spunk, the fluids most people use to record their filthy history, trying to explain the ontological qualities of a pretty girl's legs to a friend of mine who was resting his head against a chair, half-asleep and damn drunk, he himself unsure whether I was mocking him -- he hadn't had sex in days -- or chastising him because of his ignorance as to how to change his situation. A fat man stumbled over my legs that I had kept in a dandasana position, clearing away some glasses from a nearby table, one of which hit me on the head: I don't know the explanation, but I suddenly stopped writing like this. I started addressing the music I'm listening to, not the anecdotes I randomly associate with particular albums.

I'll try to write a review for every album I rate. Might take a while. I don't review albums I don't like. So even a 1-star rating is gut - good.