One of the last days in July, when the night is thin, an a cappella quartet croons us goodbye as we push off, pick up our sweep oars, and row out onto the lake. We push through the blanket-soft air: creak-swish, creak-swish. Suddenly we hear the soft sound of a saxophone, playing a haunting tune like from David Lynch’s dreams. A man stands on a rock ledge a few inches above the water, channeling his heart through the brass. And there is no next nor memories inside the cloud of music softly blowing over the water, only now, for ever, for a minute.

(Our Festival, Tuusula, Finland; July 2013)