When I was eight years old, I discovered my dad’s Beatles album. In order to sing along. I started writing down the lyrics, and as I didn’t speak a word of English, I ended up with pages full of words that didn’t exist in any language, but sounded right. At 25, I still catch myself discovering the real lyrics.
When I was thirteen years old, I was a full-blown Beatles fan. I decided to go on a pilgrimage and cycle all the way from eastern Germany to Liverpool, a plan that I never realised and laughed at as I got older. At 25, I’m settled in the city that seems to have been with me all this time.
Mysterious ways, indeed.
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