I happened onto The Diving Bell and the Butterfly again late last night. It’d been years. I have new eyes for it now.

New ears, too: I’d forgotten a shot of a woman’s hair blowing in the wind set to the main riff from U2’s ‘Ultraviolet.’

It’s a song that I avoid, not for lack of love, but the opposite - for fear of wearing it out.

‘Ultraviolet’ has been around for me not constantly but consistently. I’d cited one set of its lyrics as my then-current fave during a first date ten years ago. I’d clipped another stanza from my booklet to Achtung Baby and buried them with my cat when he died last year.

It closed out a wedding, meaning one thing to the bride and groom, and another to me and the gal I sat near, this being the first time we’d spent any real time together since our relationship had ended. It bookended an important phone call that I made down its middle, offering encouragement at first, and then seconding my elation.

I’ll take the gamut of emotions in the associated memories, because this is how I like my songs: capable of cropping up at unexpected moments, if not always the ‘right’ ones. They’re reminders - moments of clarity that need to be half-lost and half-forgotten in order to remain poignant when they resurface. They have to go away before they can come back right.

There’s a certain romance to the above sequence of hair unfurling into the camera with that song going. And there’s a deep pleasure in discovering that someone has extrapolated that moment, pulling together some of the most cinematic shots in Diving Bell and throwing them across the entirety of ‘Ultraviolet’…