Every source of inspiration you’ve ever gently danced with is a lie. Snow, the warmth of which you could feel down to the smallest particles of your soul. It’s a lie that you can love Beatrice at first sight, as if the dreams that belonged only to you and you would never give up for anything have turned into aimless goals as if you are being prepared to be shot and mockingly called behind your back to get on your knees so that you, losing your dignity, close your gray eyes, doomed to loneliness. Your life is those dusty dreams, crying on the shelf, that is enjoying yourself and looking for a particle of faith in a dirty pit for existence…
To the awakened one, from the farthest corner, soft notes of purple rain escape you. You also feel the lightness of Beatrice’s scent, you realize that your survival is the result of one big explosion. That very day, when the lilac blossomed in the garden for the first time, it was as if you felt the lightness of the movement in the garden, at this time, in the heavy brown of the room, you feel the rays of the sun from the window and you want to caress the warmth, as if every particle of light is feeding you with the scent of peace. It distributes beautiful invitations of your thoughts, and coziness, as if Bertolucci creates this emotion and Bowie dedicates the songs to it.