I've been watching you lately. I've seen you losing your touch, losing your passion. I just wish I could help you through all the pain of unrequited love and all your evenings and nights of loneliness and tears. I'm worried about you.
What he loved above all in this, his maternal edifice, what most roused his soul, and made it open wide its poor pinions which it kept so miserably folded within its caverns, that which sometimes made him happy was the bells. He loved them, caressed them, talkedto them, understood them.
I know you're longing for it to just HAPPEN SOMEDAY, longing to get out of COMPLETE BOREDOM where nothing interests you. do you remember the magic peak of the rush of music running through your body, moments when you sometimes had the insane feeling of almost WANTING TO KILL SOMEBODY?
Quasimodo remained in front of this gaping throat, squatted down, but rose at each return of the bell. He inhaled its boisterous breath, and looked by turns far down at the square swarming with people two hundred feet below him, and at the enormous brazen tongue which came, time after time, to bellow in his ear. It was the only speech he could hear, the only sound that broke the universal silence. he reveled in it like a bird in the sun. All at once, the frenzy of the bells possessed him; his expression became extraordinarily wild.
I remember the first time you experienced THE THRILL. It was a summer evening maybe eight or nine years ago. You were at home in your mother's house with your sister and her friends, spending the evening with them until they were going away for a party. This was the first step, this very evening when you felt the silence in the big old house after they had left. Alone by yourself at home you were looking through your pile of seven-inches, picking up your single with Opus 3. It was a song full of go with angelic voices you had heard on the radio and got hooked on, not without reason. It was their brilliant "It's a Fine Day". Your emotions for the song was suddenly stronger than before, not only because of the alcohol you had been given by your sister. When you played the flip, it was then it happened. The first strike of the clapper against the metal wall shook the wooden scaffolding on which he was standing. Quasimodo vibrated the bell. "Vah!" he would cry with a burst of mad laughter. Meanwhile the bell swung faster, and as it swung, taking an ever wider sweep, Quasimodo's eye opened wider and wider, and became moer and more phosphorescent and enflamed. At length the full tolling began, and the whole tower trembled - rafters, lead, stone, all groaned at once, from the piles of the foundations to the trifoliations at the summit. You put down the needle on the heavenly "Evolution Rush", and after a while you found yourself totally absorbed by THE PASSION. Oh bliss, bliss and heaven I'd say! Your emotions were growing wild inside of you, making you move to the music. Your face radiated JOY!
That night alone in your mother's house was the first time you were sticking the needle to your skin. You had found the ONLY TRUE RESCUE and an ever-lasting friend, don't you know? There was a time when you came home from school or work or whatever, being starved all day, rushing to your record-player and your records aching for the relief of BEAUTY. Your heart was black, but you had your very own secret place where you could curl up and cry.
Then there was no longer either the great bells of Notre Dame or Quasimodo; it was a dream, a whirlwind, a tempest, vertigo astride a clamor, a spirit clinging to a flying saddle, a strange centaur, half man, half bell - a sort of horrible Astolfo, carried away on a prodigious hippogriff of living bronze.
Collect your broken dreams and MAKE IT ALL IMAGINARY. Your pile of records will save you forever.
Take care -"