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Graindelavoix in Utrecht

The sound crawls and clambers. It graces with weight the unlit suspended air. And then it flurries, scatters, disseminates. Only to gather itself in fermented syrup, a viscous death drive, covering the millennium-old crevices of Janskerk. This treacle I breathe.

However, my attention is rapt, riveted to Bjorn's motions and singers' countenances, regaining the past in a collective body with many voices. In a miraculous equipoise, right now, before me, against the balmy September night outside. In a place, the lush Eyckian austerity of which bears a promise of the inexplicable.

And I can't help but notice how the self-proclaimed profoundly anti-historicist danse macabre is brimming with the personal sense of history as it traverses the wartime reality into the catastrophic polyphony on stage. Now staring into my eyes as an abstraction, not gazing out of them like before. And is this not empathy?

The Petite Camusette that had been holding my hand for six months went on dancing. I see it clearly. And I feel dread. And I feel love.

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