Notes on a Max Richter Concert

The world stop moving sometimes,
Gives you space and time to breathe again. To notice the wrinkles in your hand, or the freckles on his cheek.
But the bad part is,
You have to be paying attention.
You have to have stopped moving yourself to nice the ground under you stopped moving.
To sense the calmness breathing through blades of grass,
The lull of a deep glance,
The intoxicating caress against soft hair.
The moment of OK.


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