Peter Green has a rather interesting biography. Whatever happened to him in 1970, he has all my sympathy not only for being one of the greatest guitarists of all time. He is indeed a survivor.
My friend Wolfgang is not.
He died a few days ago just before his 46th birthday. It was either another suicide attempt, this time a successful one, or the consequences of his latest attempt. I am not sure.
He was a prisoner. We all are. Nevertheless, we usually are aware of the taste of freedom. Some of us more often, some of us less often. I don't know what took his life in the end. He was always living a few steps from the grave. The best times for him were those when he didn't realize that his house was built on sand and he had this childish stare at the world. Then he was in peace. Long stretches of his life seem like agony to me.
For me he always had kind words and he helped me whenever he could. I should have spent more time with him. Now all I can do is carry him with me in my heart. This I will do.
He didn't live far from the Bauernbergpark Man. Everyday I go past Wolfgang's empty apartment I wish that he may be together with a black magic woman now.
Someone to magic away the pain he had to endure in this world.
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