Hentzup, man of many names, is a giver. One who love the hopeless greys of a rainy day because the gloom of a low sky exalts the sounds and moods of his palette, has fought - is fighting - man’s battle with engulfing night. Has fought it well, in ecstasies of sounds and fights it yet. Hentzup, flamed by the voice of his soul, does more. He illuminates the maze in which all of us must live; from which none of us can ever expect a miraculous escape. Hentzup, man of many moods and visions in mind, is linear. His sounds define boundaries, those that emprison and those that protect, built strongly to withhold the terrors of cosmic night. Hentzup knows, and yet denies the oppression of the night He knows, but is not saddened by monotony of our grey days: he communicates. He, who knows how little blood sustains our fragile lives, has seen it spilt, and still denies the cruelty of life, condemned to die. Hentzup, man of many names, many guises sublimates. Our tragedy he shares.