If I Am Not Making Music, I

The Colour Of My Soul Is Iron-grey And Sad Bats Wheel About The Steeple Of My Dreams.

Music Begins Where Words Are Powerless To Express. Music Is Made For The Inexpressible. I Want Music To Seem To Rise From The Shadows And Indeed Sometimes To Return To Them.

On Those Who Overanalyze His Music: When You Tear The Wings Off A Butterfly, It Is No Longer A Butterfly

Do Not Allow The Accents In The Brass To Produce Space Between The Notes.

Peter Townsend Music Is The Silence Between The Notes.. So Could It Be Said That Dance Is The Stillness Between The Steps?