The Human World Is Made Of Stories,

Spent The Fortnight Gone In The Music Room Reworking My Year's Fragments Into A 'sextet For Overlapping Soloists': Piano, Clarinet, 'cello, Flute, Oboe, And Violin, Each In Its Own Language Of Key, Scale, And Color. In The First Set, Each Solo Is Interrupted By Its Successor; In The Second, Each Interruption Is Recontinued, In Order. Revolutionary Or Gimmicky? Shan't Know Until It's Finished, And By Then It'll Be Too Late.

I Think Words Operate Like Musical Notes That The Eyeball Hears.

Once Any Tyranny Becomes Accepted As Ordinary, Its Victory Is Assured.

The Her That Lived In Her Looked Out Through Her Eyes, Through My Eyes, And At The Me That Lives In Me.

The Uncreated And The Dead Exist Solely In Our Actual And Virtual Pasts.