I used to listen to Camille Saint-Saëns every other weekend during my teen days. It was therapeutic, lying in the bed and tasting all the fragrances of his music. Like a balm softening my cells, pinching my brain and in the end opening my spine.
All the colors and cinnamoned thoughts, bizarre mechanisms moving inside my cortex in an elegant manner…orgasmic.
I can even taste the peculiar metamorphosis of my thoughts. His music and Leonora Carrington’s art are perhaps the only infusions I need when my mind needs a quiet place. I absorb everything with each pore and I keep all under my skin, glued to my bones.