In Paris that summer, the students wrote "Power to the imagination" on the walls. In San Francisco they danced in the streets, and fought for what had become their way of life. And I was at home in Sendling, a suburb of Munich. I felt I died a slow and never-ending death that day. The only thing that kept me alive was the music. Without that, I would have died. Or worse, I would have turned into my parents. But music alone wouldn't get me out of Sendling. That much was clear to me. What I needed was a man. The wilder, the better.