When days I wish not to say or write a word fall upon me I sleep within and greet the touch of music’s hand over my eyes.
If you are, as Alan Watts believes, “the fabric of existence itself,” well you must be a patch, then, wind-shredded off the coattail end.
And that’s what the music is for. Which to keep me, also attached, I’d play myself if I could and so would you. But you are off in the wind flailing, remember?
Would anybody hear?
Threads flapping even more the goodbye to an old man’s coat. But listen. I’ve heard in it a rhythmic sound. Like the beating of wings, lifting. Listen to us. It’s like letting