In Choir

A hungry heart grows fat on the swelling fruits of their labour. The music...ahh, the music. I am stationed in the back of the class, by the basses, but on the Soprano's side of the room. It's my morning Eulogy that makes my heart surge with the love of life, death (which is as much a part of life as birth), oh music, dissonant, beautiful, layers of the delighful derge. I wish I wish I wish.
Esteban, what mistakes do you speak of?
Oh, music, completing me with this most perfect exaltation and pain, deliverance from the evils that are born in a silence of mind. This is my religeon.
Music, beauty, worship the wind, give thanks to the music.
Pray to the power of nature and little people.
Music, music, my drug, my escape.
My only understanding of the incomprehensible thing that is life, substance, and subtle chord changes.