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The music spoke to me of my own inadequacy. It laid out a white tablecloth, and I stained it with thoughts, loud as voices. I should have fallen to my knees. I wasn’t worthy to receive it; my head was jammed with spurious words.
It spoke of my inadequacy, but gently, lovingly. It walked its measured step and said: I am still here. It slowed time down to let me catch it; it sped time up to not sound slow.
Against the candle-lit orchestra, I could almost hear it: within each person in the room, a swirl of thoughts; the same music.
The music spoke of our inadequacy, lovingly but impartially. Where it came from, words were mere chidren. They knew so little; they were exactly as they should be. O music,
you language where all language
ends!
