Wu Lyf

It was always better not to talk about WU LYF, to experience it rather than discuss it. Words killed it. It had to be felt. Twelve years after the fire, life separated us. We all went our different ways, trying to escape the shadow cast by the brief spectacle of our youth.

Then something broke. Or healed. We settled in a friend's bookstore attic, behind unfamiliar instruments, familiar emotions, and began to play, timidly at first, but with open hearts and minds, searching for new forms liberated from what had been before.

Old friends with new scars, trying not to worsen yesterday's wounds. We are all surprised by the great music still playing through us, an unexpected gift after the longest exile, a sparkling fragment of yesteryear, magnified by who we are today.

Raw and ecstatic, the fire transfigured. We don't know what it will become. You don't dig up the seed to see if it's growing. You wait. You trust. You recognise the tree by its fruit. Our hands know what our minds have forgotten.

It's something that has always been there, waiting for us to remember. A new life is coming.