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Célula Estaminal

Célula Estaminal


Dear Amy



It doesn't get much more beautiful than this, you know? Life and all this shit. Nights don't get any greater, stages don't look any more appealing, voices don't sound more heavenly. I'm genuinely sorry I didn't get to see you yesterday. Not live anyway. I would have gladly payed the bloody 60 euros and put up with all the nasty happy-jumping people that sang before you. I would have, Amy. But you get it, don't you? Blimey! What the fuck were you doing there? Playing for thousands that sing the lyrics by heart. What the fuck does that matter? Really, Rock in Rio?


When you are singing, one doesn't sing back. We take a sip of our rum, smoke a puff or two and sink it in. We know you don't bloody care who knows the lyrics. They're yours. And you're the one who feels them, who dies a thousand times on stage, whose tears dry because you forgot the reason you cried. You're suffering is not our business, it's our entertainment. your Blake incarcerated is our reality show. And you know we eat it up. And you pretend not to fucking care, but you keep on feeding us.


Stop doing that. Sod it, stop making records if you want. Stop feeding us the shit we want and just keep singing and fuking yourself up, and grabbing your skirt up as if no dress was ever short enough for your stage legs. Because nobody will ever understand it anyway. Ever.


Jim Morrison did ok, he died early, that was his conquest. And Billie got away with it because of, well, everything. Why shouldn't you? Am I the only one that hears Billie in your  voice? That sees it in your fate? Am I the only one who feels fucking blessed to live in your era?


It is just so unbelievable to hear every single note, every single variation, to see every muscle on your face feel exactly how the song should. And to expect disaster every time you open your mouth, and receive the blissfull words of pain you sing from your fucked up and beautiful soul.


Let them ask for their money back, and scream your name like you were Avril Lavigne, and be disapointed and mad at you, and let them be bloody judgemental. They want to take the good and leave the bad. They want what money pays, and not what really exists. They want to call you the "most talented voice of this year", and deny understanding where you are comming from. They want you wraped up in a neat package, with all the ugly on the side. They don't want you, Amy, they want the show and the cute litlle song to sing to.


Amy, Amy, Amy. You are fucking perfect.



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"Personally I'm always ready to learn, although I do not always like being taught." Winston Churchill
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