Bilal – Love For Sale (Unreleased 2006)

This is an amazing album. I get flustered thinking about it, and trying to imagine how I’d place my feelings for it into words.  I wont bother.  It’s much easier to think of the times we associate with music and the affectations these memories evoke, than to describe why.  If I had to think about why I become entangled in the successes and failures that etch themselves into my face, I’d probably not.  Fuck.  And I’m such a sucker for being swayed and cajoled.  “So cheaply wrought was my completeness my desire’s impressed with speeches.” I value logic above all, save empty rhetoric, especially that of my beloved, self-proclaimed forbearers.  I can’t help but agree with Wilde’s assertion that life imitates art, that the object and spectator switch places in a constant struggle for power over one another.  And thus, this album’s introduction into my library marks a chapter of lewd debauchery in my life that warrants a sublime anonymity only granted through the loose gossamer of the web.  Thank God.  Thank Fuck too.  Fuck deserves as much credit and weight.  Hell, Fuck is probably more responsible for my being here typing this than any other ethereality.  And this was most certainly the epoch of Fuck.  I awoke to its creation, and prayed deep and long in its name; burned incense, sacrificed bodies to its graces and providence.  That these sacrificial bodies did not matter didn’t matter.  I hated them, and they were bitches.  I blurrily recall one of these drunken rendezvous, begrudgingly shared with my girlfriend of youth when she came up to visit friends at my university.  “Come meet me” was the text. We made out on the dance floor like we had in grade 10, falling into the gentle seduction of time’s delusion.  I knew what we were attempting was impossible, an illusory glean of the past.  But my sadness was cast off and deferred by nature’s convincing hooks.  Perhaps she knew this melancholic sadness too… Probably not. She was a dumb donkey who had no soul.  So I fucked the shit out of her, and bumped Bilal’s Love for Sale like it was going out of style.  My room mate told me the next day how he and a friend had come home from the bar, only to be met with Bilal’s screams in competition with another’s.  “He’s got Bilal on.” Enough said.  That night she told me she had a boyfriend.  Someone I knew and hated.  She said she’d seen a psychic recently who told her she’d marry the man she was with.  Irrationally fearing the seer’s eye fixing its sight on my freedom, I rushed her into a cab, and wished her (and her boyfriend) the best of luck.  “Get out of my hair. Go. You aint stayin here no more.  Think you better get your shit, get out the door.”

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