Rock is shit. Everything that rock sings about comes down to the fact that life is shit. That's how it is. And yet - rock is dead. He died because five seconds was enough to say "life is shit." And all this was said in the 60's. Although sometimes it seems that your shitty life is more shitty than others, and then you are born rock. He is born and then dies. This is a story about how rock was born and died in me. I'm not a writer, I'm a musician. In fact, I could write this story with the melodies to which my life passed. In my language, I would choose a jam session, continuous improvisation, distilled melody, not tainted by meaningful ideas. In the jams, a pure musical theme emerges. This theme is interrupted by rhythmic passages, where sounds rush with great speed. They scatter like pearls, then merge into one continuous stream, and the music moves rapidly from one register to another. Once upon a time, none of the musicians I knew could surpass my passages. How I miss those sessions on our bases. And that would be a good story. However, written in melodies would be clear only to me. Right now, when music is flowing out of my life, while I still hear it, I will try to translate notes and harmonies into non-smoky forms of letters. CAUTION! Non-normative vocabulary