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A series of well-timed accidents caused us to cross paths. We walked into an old barn full of yesterday’s news and unsung blues and found something from the attic. It was covered in dust and sounded like a pile of clunking old kitchen appliances falling on the floor. The next thing we knew, the space we had walked into started screaming at us to fill it with sound. We did as we were told and found ourselves dreaming of ever more elaborate ways of answering that call. At first we were stumbling in darkness, the torches we had brought with us did not work here. We had to wait as our eyes adjusted, little by little.

We ran into an old man walking in the courtyard holding his pants halfway up. He was not coming from or going for a piss around the corner but was frozen in this state for no obvious reason. He shook us out of one dream and plummeted us into the next one. It was a hot summer. We managed to pick the windiest day of the whole summer to find the sounds of kids playing on the beach. We never found them, machines replaced them. A woodpecker was doing its best to destroy a cabin where we were trying to capture the sound of something fragile falling on the ground after a long winding way down. Sleet poured in. But the place was also filled with enough cheap beer, laughter and toy instruments to last us for the whole winter if need be, so we survived. 

The found sounds we were looking for found us on the other side of the globe. The episodes in childhood homes and summer houses taught us to listen to what the walls were trying to say to us. There were long nights deprived of sleep that ended only when the early light of dawn shined on our squinting eyes. After a few more turns we found ourselves back at the beginning of the path, only altered for good by the trip we made.