Something comes from nothing. Wu Lyf was always better left unspoken, experienced rather than discussed. Words killed it. You just had to feel it.

Twelve years after the fire burnt out, life had pulled us apart. We all had walked our separate paths trying to escape the shadow cast by the brief spectacle of our youth. Then something broke. Or healed.

We set up camp in the loft of a friend's bookshop behind unfamiliar instruments, familiar emotions, and we began to play, tentative at first but with open hearts and minds, seeking new forms unchained from what had been before. Old friends with new scars, trying not to aggravate the wounds of yesterday.

We are all surprised by the big music that still plays itself through us, an unexpected gift after the longest exile, a gleaming fragment of then, magnified by who we are now. Raw and ecstatic, the fire transfigured.

What it will become we do not know.

You do not dig up the seed to see if it grows. You wait. You trust. You know the tree by its fruits. Our hands know what our minds forgot. This is something that was always there, waiting for us to remember. A new life is coming.