There are no drugs to quell the fear of writing and no quick swigs to embolden the wilted ink of some valid thought. This is to say there is little to say or share and no Mahler/Bruckner/Rott sessions can tragedify my dead well. How can I be caught between the Peanut Butter Conspiracy and Schumann? Why is there such a gun as choice? Harmonies still reticulate in the grainy foyer of some 60’s garden and I want to feel the spring of wet brained Eurekas just again once over more.
