One night in the studio you force me to improvise. I don’t want to, nor do I believe I am capable; even the idea hurts me. But you are convinced that it is the most beautiful thing I could do and that I have never done. I almost perceive that you are no longer speaking about my music. I believe, for a moment, that you are speaking about me.

My art is architecture of my soul, designed by the will of calculation and foresight, because that is how I learned not to bleed from the cruelties of life. If I were to improvise, I would be disarmed before everything that is out there, and perhaps, what is inside me. It would invert the rules of the world.

I improvise.

From down there, it might seem nothing more than the discovery of a new ink for a new pen, the unveiling of a new creative path for my predilect Muse. But from up here, everything that can happen, and even what cannot, is being unleashed.

My art before this night does not only reject improvisation, but repudiates myself, my cracks, and my smudges. And you, with this free impulse, made me feel loved and taught me to love myself. It made me fall in love with you for the first time, and with art forever.

Perhaps that is why I ended up in Berlin, because it is the blind alley of lost souls. My demons were getting lost in the grip of a psyche fragile to the bone. It is still so, and inevitably always will be— thank God.

Yesterday you swore to me that you would uproot me from my chrysalis. You won. A night without chains, in the studio I transcended the peak of living with the free wind, and I know that I can no longer undertake my descent. Now that I have lived it to the fullest, I will annihilate every compromise and diplomacy that makes my freedom bleed. I will be a rebel forever.

Now, I am an artist.