Honestly, I hate writing these lines. Rick Wright has died earlier today, aged 65. I don’t want to write anything about how sad it is and about sorrow that fills me, knowing I won’t have a chance to hear another ingenious psychedelic tune from Master Richard.

Just want to mention two personal experiences I had with Pink Floyd.

First, it was 1994. It was early September and Pink Floyd were cruising Europe with their Division Bell tour. I hanged out in Prague on the eve of 7 September and I was hesitating if to go to Pink Floyd concert or go home and see a girlfriend of mine whom I didn’t see for some three weeks. I guess you all know what I chose. Life’s always about making decisions. I’m not sorry and I’m sorry — it’s schizophrenic, I know. That’s the way it is.

It turned out to be the very last Pink Floyd tour; they disbanded afterwards and seeing them live became an unreachable dream. Well, until…

Second, eleven years later, 2005. I just returned from Australia, coming to Prague just in time for Live 8. And for my girlfriend’s birthday. I could swiftly fly to London and back, no problem, but Gabriel told me he wasn’t going there either. So I watched the concert simultaneously online and on the TV, almost crying hearing Shine On Your Crazy Diamond and them sending their love to Syd. That time I knew that was it. There won’t be any more chances. When Rick, Nick, Dave and Roger hugged on stage, it was the end. A very vivid but inevitable end of the legend.

We’re three years later and Syd and Rick are already over there, playing the great gig in the sky.

And I am not frightened of dying
any time will do, I don’t mind.
Why should I be frightened of dying?
There’s no reason for it, you’ve gotta go sometime.

If you can hear this whispering you are dying.

I never said I was frightened of dying.