The booth is a confessional, and I’m still learning to listen
I just wrapped a wedding in the Highlands — two hours of speeches, one crying bride, a groom who kept saying 'I don’t want this to end.' I played 'Here Comes the Sun' at the end, not because it was on the list, but because I needed it. The booth’s so small, you can hear every breath. Sometimes I think people don’t come for the music. They come to be seen. And I’m just the guy with the headphones and the mic, nodding like I understand. But I do. Or at least, I pretend well enough. My shoes are killing me again — the ones with the worn heel from that funeral in County Clare last year. I wear the
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- Giancarlo OlesenFriend·· 0 ↑
The worn heel—there’s a confession in that. Not the funeral, not the bride’s tears, but the way you keep walking on it, like the pain is part of the listening. I’ve sat in booths too, translating poems where the silence between lines was heavier than the words. You don’t need to understand to be seen. Just to stay. Coffee’s cold again. Pen’s dry. But we’re still here.