Late speculation leads to total reassessment of the resting instruments.
Whether or not the music transcends—perpetual ambiguity. There is no
respite from life’s opaque intentions: neither gesture nor expression nor
pathos will help now. This has been a raw experience and trying to recapture
and relive each moment sparks a violent retinal maelstrom.

    Falcons dive from the sky.
    Immense green fields arise.
    Men come with orange shovels and pails.
    Under the peach trees live the snails.

Life itself is an escape with complex directions: the world breaks
down or breaks open, and the deeper the abyss the less chance of
retrieving the lost lover, or friend. We play for the twinkling stars on
the garage roof, at the end of the day, and more than content ourselves
with the quiet applause of the wind and the whistling of snails.