The period following the demise of rock n’ roll music was a black hole, my country was at war with it’s own self then. My country was at war until it tore itself out into three, we pretend after seventy five years so long the wounds have healed but the barbed wires across the river on the east side still bleed sometimes, silently, at night when no one can hear. No one does, but our soil is red with the blood of the land and the blood is in our mouths when we speak in a language we can no longer call our own, our mouths that long to kiss the soil of our fathers from which all the songs sprung up, songs without any words to them and words stripped of melody. When the Beatles broke up there was a riot. There was a famine on this side of the barbed fence and 300,000 died in the Liberation war, but what good are numbers for the dead are dead and words never mean anything except what they say. The songs of the land are forgotten, you forget things when you have no one to say them to. We are a people estranged from ourselves, when Nietzsche told us God had died, we believed it. It doesn’t matter either way, what are borders but shadow lines, barbed wires are imaginary, countries arbitrary, places exist only in our heads. Nothing really mattered anymore after the day Buddy Holly’s plane flew over the lake and crashed in a cornfield.