“I think of you….:” MALIK BENDJELLOUL’S ‘SEARCHING FOR SUGAR MAN’

We all like to maintain that rock and roll can and does lift us into a corridor of joyous action. We’ve all been carried, by instances of its musical dynamics, into dance—yes—but something more. Embrace it or not, we’ve all been touched by way of that “music industry,” by a glimpse of what has never been cogently accounted for in the guiding features of our lives.

In fact, there is, in the musical tradition preceding rock and roll, a chronicling (rather than direct delivery) of the same mystery, though palmed off as a physiological and sociological stage, to be outgrown. In Albert Hague and Arnold Horwitt’s song, “Young and Foolish” (for the 1954 Broadway musical, Plain and Fancy), we are met with,

“Young and foolish

Why is it wrong to be?

Young and foolish

We haven’t long to be

Soon enough the carefree days

The sunlit days go by.

Soon enough the bluebird has to fly.

We were foolish

One day we fell in love.

Now we wonder,

What were we thinking of?

Smiling in the sunlight,

Laughing in the rain,

I wish that we were young and foolish again.”

Emergent at the very time when this song was born, the impetus of rock and roll had, in its heart of hearts (for both producers and consumers), a considerably more incendiary outlook than that of burned out partners cherishing their salad days. It would, in fact, subscribe to improvising another verse of the Broadway ballad, namely, “Young and foolish/ Why is it wrong to be/ Young and foolish?/ We have the right to be…” Having a right to be uncanny represents both the glory and the shame of rock music. For “right,” in this context, does not trade in facile entitlement but in ferocious obligation. Needless to say, for all its fervent invention, the history of rock and roll is suffused with shabby compromise, calculation and greed (on the part of the players) and childish self-evasion bridging to viciousness (on the part of fans). “Young and foolish” implies something far more severe than the song’s idyll.

A keynote practitioner of the free-for-all about the right to be wild and crazy is Bob Dylan. Graced with charismatic confidence and cursed with a voice (all too revealing) very close to that of Walter Brennan, Dylan caught the updraft of post-War domestic sybarites and their indulgence of plucky scamps in those cul de sacs. The upshot was a body of remarkably popular and influential preachiness, deflected from any bite by the writer/ performer’s hogging all attention toward his own presumably marvellous enactment of righteous and bound-to-be triumphant hostility. Despite a quorum, from all over the U.S. and Britain, of virtuosic transmission of the haunting quality of young and foolish, there would, amongst Dylan’s widely-varying colleagues—especially once the 1960’s became brandable—be far more peacock than pizzazz coming down that pike. One acute observer of this watered-down wildness is a young Swedish filmmaker, Malik Bendjelloul, who has proceeded to investigate, close-up, in 30-minute chunks of television, some of the big names of rock and roll. In the course of his explorations, he found himself in South Africa, where one of the big names was far from a big name to him, having never in fact heard of the guy. Soon after listening to the star’s grand total of two discs (produced in 1970 and 1971) and hearing of the transcendently abbreviated non-career of the farthest thing from a peacock rock and roll had ever elicited, Bendjelloul knew that his investigation of this musician would take much longer than half an hour.

Accordingly, the resultant film, Searching for Sugar Man (2012)—featuring at full, eerie tilt that surreal ore big-name rock had smelted into trinkets—would not comfortably lend itself to the limping empiricism of the documentary genre. The auteur (in fact), being also a musician, lays down, near the outset, a variant of Angelo Badalamenti’s haunting theme (itself being a variant of Samuel Barber’s “Essay for Orchestra”) for David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive, as we behold the mean, nocturnal streets of Detroit, the “natural habitat” of our saga’s gentle Beast, and then go indoors for this mystery’s version of Club Silencio—a place where someone onstage fades away—a place characteristically named, The Sewer. It is, I feel, important to get this Surrealist factor, of the “more” (real) in the nitty gritty stampede of rock, out there early, to put out of order the feeble supposition that we are dealing with a Dylan-like presence who spoke to those preoccupied with the racist police state apartheid outrage of South Africa. Bendjelloul was well aware he had something far hotter in view than just another hectoring, self-conscious and self-styled cool, super-humane genius. And, perhaps even more crucial, he knew his presentation would be about a generation uniquely stricken by a dispensation suffocatingly atavistic.

The narrative data is structured in the form of a missing person and crime investigation (Lynch’s vanishing Latino, Rita, coming to be locked upon our [from the South African perspective] vanished Sixto Rodriguez), where both the disappearance and the crime take a back seat to mystery and grace. So it is, that in the first shot, of the driver of a car gliding along the ravishing, sun-drenched Oceanside highway into Cape Town (the Dutch heritage of the place reverberating with Mulholland), we hear him blithely singing along to a tape of the song, “Sugar Man”—not, in fact, about some exploited and oppressed field worker, but about a drug dealer, and also about the singer, his tuning-obsessed client. “Sugar Man, won’t you hurry/ Cos I’m tired of these scenes/ For a blue coin won’t you bring back/ All those colors to my dreams…” The driver, Stephen Segerman, is soon readily identifiable as the singer’s #1 fan (happy to have gained the nickname, Sugar Man, for himself). His amateur’s voice wavers over a sort of Jose Feliciano current; but, even with the muffled interference, we are clearly struck by a peculiarly sharp, risky edge coming to bear, and a set of lyrics you couldn’t mistake as connected to an ingratiating purveyor of Christmas carols. “Sugar man met a false friend/ On a lonely dusty road/ Lost my heart when I found it/ It had turned to dead black coal.” (The Coens would definitely not have shortlisted him for that Rotarian Convention hotel in Fargo.)

Though he’s not much of a singer, Segerman is, like so many others of those on the scene, a very strong, engaging presence in front of the camera. (Bendjelloul couldn’t have cast for pros any more convincing in warming to the near-miracle being disclosed here.) The poised body language, pacing and articulation of all the witnesses cinematically serve to set in relief a level of self-effacement in Rodriguez unprecedented in rock music circles. That fascinating tracking shot, from foggy streets (accompanying two music producers checking out that new talent) and into the smoke-filled Sewer, culminates in a hazy glimpse of the musician performing with his back to the audience, a variant, of sorts, of Mexican-American Rebekah Del Rio’s riveting non-performance at the LA underground, after-hours club. On the other hand, the fertile assertiveness, of those who unequivocally love Rodriguez for the topspin of his rare sensibility, has been keyed to the innovative excitement he brings into view, not, then, a case of celebrity. After the drive to his workplace—a record shop he owns, called Mabu Vinyl—Segerman lets us in on the wonderment of his fandom for Sugar Man. Although a force of higher market calibre in South Africa than Elvis and the Stones, no one there knows anything about him (though rumor has it he committed suicide—a rumor without factual substance; but not a bad inference in view of the often stark, always uncompromising nature of the vignettes in his songs, as coupled with that South African isolation due to being dismissed as a pariah state by the rest of the world, which would have taken such a profit centre ending with only two discs to mean the producer must surely have died). The knife-edge intensity of his recorded performances (exuding a disinterested plunge) definitely shows Rodriguez to be trading in something entirely different from Elvis’ raunchy Southern lover-boy and the Stones’ “aren’t we the limit!” cheekiness.

Leaving Sugar Man 2 deep in awe about Sugar Man 1, we hit cold. raw Detroit, The Sewer and those recording experts confirming Segerman’s superlatives. But we also have, jumping into our face in that apocalyptic darkness, a bartender who lends substance to the apparition and its shattering potential. Having had many close encounters with the mystery man, this wiry survivor of a no-nonsense economy exclaims (again, as perfect for the setting as those vaguely scary and attractively sleazy marginal figures Lynch never failed to find), “He was a Wandering Spirit around the City… a drifter… I didn’t know if he had a home…” Then—with another sudden disorientation—we’re in sunny Palm Springs, California, where the producer of our protagonist-in-eclipse’s second and final album confirms the unearthliness (so ardently remarked by those two talent sleuths who produced the first one) of such a “talent” (with “all the machinery [of song-hit production] in place”), and its failing to find air-play, let alone buyers, in down-to-earth America. Here we once again thrill along with Bendjelloul’s unacknowledged thrill, this time in finding in this second, superannuated music insider the same gentle, empathetic and dazzled features we recall from the sidelined movie producer who gives Betty (on the verge of being mauled by and backing off from the bright lights) a glowing response to her screen test. First there is more of the same (seeming) hyperbole: “He’s my most memorable artist, not just a musical talent but a prophet… a wise man!” He refers to his first album, “Cold Fact” (the wording of the title itself an oracular proposition, installed with a view to the buyer’s being on the hook to puzzle over what it might mean), as “absolutely brilliant;” and then he recalls hearing the demo tapes for the material he was about to produce (under another roulette wheel title, “Coming from Reality”), and thinking, “This has got to be a smash!” That memory brings him to play, for the director and us, a cut from that production (During the previous scenes of testimony, Rodriguez songs spice up and, like the titles, temper the consensus that this “Prince” [one of the names he uses in listing the writer of each of his songs] should have come into a princely fortune), which plunges him into gloom, in its unwitting anticipation of the disaster of total indifference befalling the venture.

“Cause I lost my job two weeks before Christmas

And I talked to Jesus [another way Rodriguez, an ironist of surprising heft, signs his work] at

The Sewer

And the Pope said it was none of his God-damned business

While the rain [spoiling his parade] drank champagne…”

Having two-in-a-row commercial failures, the protagonist is dropped from his label, two weeks before Christmas, a linkage that has the Palm Springs guy choking back tears. The stressed interjection here, by the sweet booster—“Aw, Man!—is another California touch sewn into Mulholland Drive. On ending the cut, the appalled and tearful enthusiast declares, “This guy deserves recognition!… Nobody was even interested in listening to him. How can that be? A guy that writes like this!”

In a flash we’re back in Cape Town, and while the rockabilly-cum-Bob Marley tune, “I Wonder,” with its big looping viral hook and chillingly lone-wolf vocalization lends lustre to the dime-store decor of Segerman’s record shop, we hear that that same nobody, as far as America was concerned, was, to young South Africans in the 1970’s (and beyond), “the soundtrack to our lives.” That gripping juxtaposition lunges toward the quintessence of this Surrealist film, perched like some utterly strange intruder within the precincts of documentary film production. There ensues the briefest of newsreel footage concerning the apartheid policies (as to a virtual lock-down of the Black population) of the ultra-conservative South African government as symbiotically operating on behalf of the ultra-conservative Caucasian society, with its coercive maintenance of a very thought-provoking status quo. This segment sets a stage wherein the Nazi-like revival has elicited the complete isolation of that country from the rest of the world—no imports, no travel, no television, state radio. The burden here is very much a matter of allowing Segerman and other Rodriguez devotees (all of them white) to indicate that they have been “oppressed people” not merely because their rulers are cruel to Blacks but because their rulers are archaic, shallow cowards and that that archaism, shallowness and cowardice imparts a sickening pall upon every facet of public and private life. The revelatory, deliriously contrarian powers of Rodriguez’s music (somehow arriving, perhaps by way of a rare visitor [the working inference is a girlfriend] to the country who was one of the tiny handful of buyers for the pathetically tiny pressing of “Cold Fact;” and then being pirated, only later being manufactured by local companies) had gone way over the heads of those preening in face of the cleverly homogenized music scene in America. But they were a delicious fit for sensibilities uniquely driven to resist not merely dismaying politicians but the elemental priorities of the motion-averse civilization those politicians thrived upon and worked, with more overt violence than elsewhere, to maintain. Segerman, wide-eyed, ever the upbeat enthusiast, declares, “Listening to Rodriguez we realized it was alright to be anti-establishment, to be angry with your society.” (“I was born for the purpose that crucifies your mind…”)

As the history of South Africa worked to put behind it the horrific embarrassment and cripplement of apartheid and subsequent ostracism, the radioactive factor of Rodriguez underwent a remarkable development, which allowed the full range of his artistry to come to light. The running assumption (even after the embargo was lifted) that the singer was dead would be one damper upon investigating his actions. But the ragged approach to finally making contact is an important indicator that the quicksilver infusions were far from fully assimilated. Segerman learns from an American tourist that his supposition that Sixto is another Elvis, Stateside, is far from sound. And that “mystery” of this disconnect galvanizes him to get to the bottom of his hero’s case. He and fellow rock geek, music journalist (and world traveller), Craig Bartholomew, discover from one of the producers of “Cold Fact” that their assumption that the special voice killed himself is another error—he being in fact alive—and they set up a web page to try to find him. One of Rodriguez’s daughters stumbles across it, Segerman has a middle-of-the night phone conversation with his deity, goes nuts in a fetching way, induces the now quite elderly rocker to—as he puts it to a much-amused co-worker in the “demolition” business, mainly consisting of stripping down derelict properties—“go on the road” (to Cape Town); and the stage is set for a revival meeting of amazing proportions.

The arrival of Rodriguez’s flight (along with his three daughters) to South Africa, in 1998, is rendered in slight but (in the general context) arresting animation, the visitors crossing the tarmac in silhouette against sienna-toned hills. One of the daughters (Eva, the one in fact who fortuitously surfed the Web) is then seen and heard marvelling at the reception—limos and “paparazzi;” a second daughter, Regan, recounts that, at first, she imagined the big cars and big cameras were for “someone important,” from the Executive Class. None of those women has anything in common with Anita Ekberg. And, accordingly, the moment of Sugar Man coming on stage is at a register not only galaxies away from Hollywood, but equally remote from the Psych Ward riots touched off by rock royalty. The footage here is crude—much of it filmed by Eva and Regan—and the sound is not crisp; but, as it turns out, it’s very apt as a passage of reunion for a rock music constituency the likes of which has never before been seen, and never will be seen again. Whatever approximation to the voice and fire of the twenty-eight-year-old the fifty-six-year-old could muster is immaterial—and how different from a concert pic is that! The show begins with the base line for “I Wonder,” the base line alone, playing for more than ten minutes, while the audience (the real star, at this moment)—to that point carrying along only a foggy recollection of excitements having (this being so volatile a matter) close to vanished into a Detroit-like smoke screen, and many of whom still not convinced the real Rodriguez was in the building—embraces with their cries the figure waving to them (for once facing his audience), having elicited their long-lost sense of “young and foolish.” At one point of this confluence (electrifying largely by virtue of the ecstatic faces and totally candid body language), Regan’s voice-over remarks, “I don’t think they even cared if they heard the songs. They just wanted to meet him…”

There is something very attractive about Regan’s enunciation of her father’s triumphs and tribulations—a mixture of muted affection and stoical grace, which reminds me of Ozu’s Setsuko Hara. Sometime after that first (and, in one sense, last) gig, she covers the utterly strange celebration as if it were a normal occurrence in the assembly line of arena concerts. “This was who he really was. A musician playing for his fans.” That modest summary is overtaken by a return to Segerman at the arena. He is nearly beside himself with joy. “I thought he’d be confused… He turns out to be a picture of absolute tranquillity… serenity in being at home. Home is acceptance… This is never going to happen again!” In the midst of that pandemonium, Rodriguez comes to the mike and quietly drawls, “Thanks for keeping me alive.” A journalist who had earlier commented on the almost incredible oddness of the impact of those two discs amidst the throes precipitated by a fascist police state, declares, as the show becomes the audience, “This is all too strange to be true!” Backstage, after the show, the Sugar Man, a musician only for want of a better word, makes clear where Regan’s gift for understatement comes from. “They were so sweet. I couldn’t believe it… South Africa made me feel like more than a prince.”

Soon he is back at his house in need of repairs, in the bombed out heart of downtown Detroit, coaxing, with a scrap of cardboard, some fire from a small black wood burning stove. Regan observes, “He does jobs no one else wants to do…He lives very simply… There is no glamor in his life.” Bendjelloul’s voice interjects, “But he’s sold more than half a million records in South Africa…” And she takes a deep breath and muses, “It’s the music business… There is piracy or such like thing… Perhaps other people are rich.”

In her gentle and sincere assertion about the absence of pizzazz in her father’s life as bound to hauling away filthy and possibly dangerous substances from potentially viable structures, Regan once again sort of misses the point of the vivacious plenitude of his actions, as opening out to uncanny resilience. The moment of discovery, that Sugar Man is not a martyr but a guy who can phone you up in the middle of the night, sets off a panoply of vignettes showing the source of that musical lava to be, now, a self-possessed, very still, near-aboriginal, with a shock of jet-black hair and hipster sun glasses. Bendjelloul stages with surreal irony his first appearance in this filmic commotion, having him, filmed from the scruffy yard of his ramshackle residence, lift up a ground-floor window and stand there, impassively leaning forward in vague and striking resemblance to a monarch greeting his subjects from a balcony. The director then interviews him in a dark room by a window, bringing forward this peculiar sovereign’s never having been contacted about the success of his foreign affairs. The auteur-cum-documentarist then wonders how he feels about missing out on a coup that would have taken him to new heights, “probably for the better.” Rodriguez quietly demurs, “I don’t know if it would have been better.” In face of the interview’s going on to probe how he feels about, though deserving “super star” status, missing out on it, this farthest thing from a corporate animal (and thereby well aware how out of sync he is from that gravy train) remains silent for a while, clearly uncomfortable with the direction things have taken here. Then he says, barely audible, “I don’t know how to respond to that…” Bendjelloul, latching on to the understated protagonist’s seeming reclusiveness, asks if he has any kind of day-to-day contact with mainstream experience. “I do hard labor,” the Sugar Man quickly replies. “It keeps the blood circulating…keeps you fit…” He goes on to point out that, “I do get about,” going to bars, clubs and concerts. Whereas Regan tells of his being “working class, working poor,” and being devoted to “social causes,” running for civic government roles (“He ran seven times. He didn’t win an election. Ever… This ballot misspells his name…”), the third daughter, Susan, recalls his often taking the girls to the art museum—and, among other attractions, its Diego Rivera murals—and other places predominantly populated by “elites.” “That was our daycare.”

Another figure (far beyond Central Casting), a fellow demolition worker, takes a far less sentimental slant on the same terrain, finding Rodriguez’s campaigning for the post of mayor to be rich and exciting comedy. Brimming with good-natured mirth, he recalls telling him, “God bless you, Rodriguez!” (along the way noting that he’d frequently discharge his dirty duties in a Motown tux). “If you can become Mayor of Detroit, then these are really strange times…” It was to this remarkably agile speaker that the singer made his day, by announcing, “Emerson, I gotta go on tour.” This conduit of so much of the protagonist’s easily misread vintage is named Rick Emmerson, and he does indeed—against all odds—deliver an Emersonian, American Transcendentalist appreciation of his friend’s acuity. “The artist is the pioneer. Rodriguez took all that torment, confusion and pain, and he transformed it into something beautiful, like the silkworm, creating something beautiful out of simple raw material… He’s representative of the greatness of the human spirit.” (The earlier [Ralph Waldo] Emerson, and his colleague, Henry David Thoreau, along with other Romanic sensualists, like Robert Louis Stevenson, were beginning to awaken to the reflective advantages of manual labor.)

But Emmerson’s generous tribute, not unlike Regan’s, for all its cogent love, fumbles the ball. (The big-name Emerson was also much about mystical consummation; and only latterly, and confusedly, allowing that a cheap and heavy majority cannot be discounted.) Eva had (inadvertently) touched upon the contours of this tough focus, in commenting about the end of the magical tour. “The carriage turned back into the pumpkin…” What is so intractable here—demonstrated by another of Eva’s comments, recalling the time when the South Africans had become transported by the news that their visionary was still on the job—was exposed by the line, “You may not want to know… Sometimes a fantasy is better left alone…” In all the aforecited caring observations the assumption was that only absolute triumph could avail; and that, conversely, Rodriguez’s settling for dirty work was a crushing mishap and waste of time and talent. There is a haunting passage, right after the interview with Bendjelloul, of Sugar Man haltingly making his way along the snow and ice of a Detroit winter (blazingly white, with a sugar-white-covered factory in the distance, sending out cold white smoke against a cold blue sky), in shades and, as always, in all black attire, his black boots a stark misalliance—or pristine, very challenging alliance–with all that slippery white (the only moment of another wardrobe [another approach to the world] being that which he wears onstage, with its blue shirt and tie!). The cinematic range of this nightmarish idyll imparts to us, as none of the spoken lines could, that Rodriguez’s almost incredibly diverse career is spot on—not particularly pretty but astronomically beautiful. (His blue shirt and tie and Motown tux would perhaps speak to a viability in such fashion crimes.) It is that synthetic priority which reduces the issue of the theft of his royalties to a pathetic little squib, very much akin to the coffee shop Beast in Mulholland Drive, such a big deal for faint hearts but negligible for those who see their way clear to the big picture. Directly preceding the stroll in the snow, we see Craig Bartholomew, having made his ownmost pivot in relation to the venerable Hollywood sign, gaining an interview with the twinkly-eyed custodian of the monies coming out of South Africa, who, on being asked embarrassing questions about the very odd gold rush, shuts down proceedings with a dusky lunge toward the camera. Before doing so, he flicks a cheap insult toward South Africa as an obvious crime centre, in terms of, “How long have they been free? For three hours?” A non sequitur indeed, but compelling as a warped truth about the crushing pressures startlingly proffering the only fan base on the planet for the Sugar Man’s relentlessly hurtful poetry. (Detractors of this film think to have the perfect gotcha in decrying its not referring to two concert tours of Australia Rodriguez was signed up for, in 1979 and 1981. Over and above these gigs contributing nothing to an ongoing career and being about no more than pin money, the World Music and far left mavens behind that little blip would only see as far as Regan, leaving the heart of the matter—within the sightlines of Rodriguez’s, Bendjelloul’s and South African fans’ priorities—untouched. In fact, such a lost patrol (as those tours would constitute) might well have worsened the dilemma of impasse. Doctrinaire applause would not cut it here.

The same sensual energies, leading our spellbinder to cleave to extremely pristine motions in the “excavation” game, bring forth singable poetry that obviates the tepid (because irrevocably conventional) dynamics of “activism.” Though such middling concerns can be interpretatively imposed upon lyrics to the songs in those two discs, the full operation of those texts (including the musical/dramatic delivery) points elsewhere. Perhaps a few listeners in Australia, Europe and America could and can fathom the avant-garde ambitions there. (It comes as a bit of a shock to hear, from his daughters, that he is a philosophy scholar, having somehow garnered a BA at Wayne State University, while cleaning out derelict buildings.) But, as we touch upon some of the highlights, let’s hold fast to the remarkableness of their South African listeners on that day in 1998, and what it took to drive them wild.

A place to start with this is remarking the huge scale of the difficulty in view there. As remarked, the song, “Sugar Man,” ferociously stands apart from the reflexive, one-track endorsement of the Summer of Love and its fabulously off-putting consumption of mood-altering drugs. The “dead black coal” our speaker comes up with is markedly unlike puffing up the deity that was Dylan’s “Tambourine Man,” and a vigorous intimation that this would-be profit centre totally eschews kissing the asses of the stalwarts of counter-cultural marketing. “A Most Disgusting Song” further clears the air in referring to “the bearded schoolboy with the wooden eyes” and “the militant with his store-bought soul.” Elsewhere we have, “In the factory that you call your mind…/ You’re pretending that you got it made/ You know I know you got no truth/ You’re still serving cookies and kool-aid/ You’re so proper and so cute.” What some have taken for a load of well-known, comforting rant in the lyrics must, therefore, be retooled to the form of not mere one-upmanship but testing a subtly limited ruthlessness toward cowardice-fuelled slippage from a creative objective, dashing any hopes of apt confluence. The ironically wry final stanza of “Sugar Man” has the speaker (never in the running for whipping up a constituency like the Deadheads) exposing his own intimidation by the intrinsic, crippling complexity of primordial nature.

“Sugar Man, you’re the answer

That makes my questions disappear

Sugar Man ‘cos I’m weary

Of those double games I hear.”

(This, often overwhelming, bite of causality fetches up the line, “Cause how many times can you wake up in this comic book and plant flowers?”)

It is this self-critical awareness which enables a repertoire of remarkable love songs to co-exist with vicious screeds like, “Dancing Rosemary, disappearing sister Ruth/ It’s just your yellow appetite/ that has you choking on the truth/ You gave in, you gave out, outlived your dreams of youth…” That, and the monstrosity of realization that, in pursuing a harsh as well as sufficing transparency, he would be, when all is said and done, a horror to virtually all of the world’s population. “Soon you know I’ll leave you/ And I’ll never look behind/ ‘Cos I was born for the purpose/ That crucifies your mind.” In a song like, “I Wonder,” the great musical hook (coming out of playfulness in that shambles) offers a glimpse of how, in the face of such stunning lack of promise, good times manage to obtrude.

This curious, uncanny timbre (Surrealistically joyous, as was the performance of “Crying” at Club Silencio) instils in the odes to women past a treasure of love which good-times-gluttons would never buy. The song, “I Think of You,” conveys a key of affection continuous with that inexpressible sufficing that came to so remarkable a fruition at that concert already disappearing in cold fact, but still coming from reality, thanks to this film.

“Just a song we shared, I’ll hear

Brings memories back when you were here

Of your smile, your easy laughter

Of your kiss, those moments after

I think of you

And think of you

Of the dreams we dreamt together

Of the love we vowed would never

Melt like snowflakes in the sun

My days now end as they begun

With thoughts of you

And I think of you