April 28

When nothing else can move the day forward but the slings and arrows of outrage, I seat myself before the sounds of iron bells, streams of brightly colored paper, the blunt thump of drilling somewhere far away or the aftereffect of a car subwoofer rolling by. I’m trying to hear the birds. Music, the most time-bound of arts, for it is constantly dying and being replaced. Music and its recall; the tendency of the mind to fill the blanks and thus to make time pass.