Sarah Sharpe

About the Author Sarah Sharpe

“Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.” And we do. Continuously. Aimlessly. Directionlessly. Resilient but chapped from the winds of time that blow almost everything into the silence that is yesterday. But we do try. When it comes to battling windmills, sound is pretty well armed, indeed. It’s got two ears for points of entry and it seldom finds them locked. Ears. The only unarmed and mute sense, so to speak, often used and abused by vicious tongues and cacophonous minds. Acquiesces its chambers to almost all that come-a-knocking. So why willingly abandon something so stripped and helpless to the jabs and caresses of notes and accords and melodic whims? What can I say, in the words of one of the most prodigious of warhorses (Mr. Freddy Mercury), “I’m just a musical prostitute, my dear”.