In which we're drained
They play without music, their eyes sometimes on their hands, sometimes closed, sometimes on each other. What they hear, what they imagine, I do not know. There is no forced gravitas in their playing. It is a beauty beyond imagining — clear, lovely, inexorable, stroke across stroke, stroke echoing stroke, the incomplete, like the unending ‘Art of Fugue.’ It is an equal music.
Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope not to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music - not too much, or the soul could not sustain it from time to time.
Song du jour.