Dear Pink Floyd,
From the hazy afternoons of youth, when “Time” whispered warnings of ticking clocks and dreams deferred—“When I was a child I had a fever / My hands felt just like two balloons”—to the stormy tempests of young adulthood where “The Wall” echoed my crumbling barriers, and now, in echoes of that distant ache, “Now I’ve got that feeling once again / I can’t explain, you would not understand / This is not how I am.” Your music has been the thread weaving through every unraveling chapter.
In quieter valleys of reflection, “Wish You Were Here” pulled me back from the edge, a lantern in the fog—“The child is grown, the dream is gone.” You’ve aged like a river carving canyons—unchanging yet eternally shaping me. Old friend, no matter the decade or the dust, I return to you, and there, in the echo of your notes, I feel alive again.
With endless gratitude,
A lifelong echo
