I need to find a voice. All that I have — I wish to, I can’t help but close my eyes and my chest from heaviness is weightless and the air inside expelled by the piano notes. The anguish in the sound, the jealousy, the pangs. Oh wretched. It played with heaving silence and divine echoes as the notes sounded like ether. Or as a sparkle that burns heavy chords. Eternal and inconsequential, unknown, hidden. Why should everything be expressed in language. Too limited and unsuggestive. Music that the realm of the unsaid and the ungraspable, the hazy inscrutable easy flow, and music shall untune the sky. Untune the sky, the very word is like a bell that tolls me back to my sole self. Suppose my sole self should repent, and I laugh. Or I cry. I can’t be sure ’cause mother died today, or maybe the day Caddy smelled like mud, unfamiliarly perfumed from an unseen censor that whispers the dread in a word on the night’s shore, where she ran with him into the storm, and he caressed her breast and sucked as her hand unzipped and touched — he moaned. It was the first. She was always the first. The silver ripeness of that saintly eve, unromantic and the pangs in the music but there was no storm only rebellion that terrifies me. Beautiful rebellion. Thoughtless vulgar rebellion. Oh, Chopin, eternal Chopin, are thou true? It’s all a quotation. But I want to cry. Yes, cry, for the music is so sad and beautiful like words of poetry in an elfin tongue. Yet underneath the shadows of the past. Embalmed in darkness I want to dose off into the manna dew of the piano. Write about her, love her, oh love her, and defile her, caress her and infiltrate her body and pull her hair till she cries in love and utter submission to the will of my heart. And to her tear serenade under the weight of the past. Repeat it, or fall asleep.