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I would like to leave the page blank but I´m afraid it would all be misunderstood or, worse, forgotten. It´s late and the clock is ticking, the dog snores, and the pencil, well, it seems to have a mind of its own, like a music box wound up. I had one once, a gift from my mother– the key turned and turned and notes fell into my ears or rose to them if the box was in my hand, say, waist-level in my hand, where it sat inanimate and yet alive with feeling and warmth, its smooth wooden lid not yet stained with age. I didn´t recognize its tune then, an incantation from a time before my time, a Romantic etude perhaps, or a variation on a Neoclassical theme, an homage to a past that now is mine, my mother´s voice a music teacher´s slow tick-tocking lesson on pacing and interpretation, one then another turning into sound, lesson and memory turning into sound and meaning nothing more than that, nothing more than sound. I close the lid, the notes more than I can bear. ![]() |