NO ONE’S PICKING UP YOUR PHONE CALL, ETERNAL RECURRENCE
I only hope you’ll understand
there were moments when I lost my way,
misguided by want of a good time.
I am tired of returning over and over again.
I’m so tired of coming back to start again.
But, God, O God!, I’d have to do it all again!
For what would I be otherwise?
I’d have to bloody do it all again…
I was so careless with my love of music.
I was so careless with my love of love.
My heart would stumble, drunken sailor,
’round and ’round my stupid head.
Still I’d have to do it all again.
The only way it all makes sense
Is to do it all again.
Jason Preu 
I’d learned that I’d loved music composed with sound that brought out such very good in me wordlessly—I’d play Beethoven’s Moonlight and Kreutzer sonatas again and again…already knowing they’d born no titles for the composer, the titles attached afterwards in interpretation, likely not thought up by the composer. I’d notice myself drinking in the music while vigorously doing something else, but nowadays I often select a single chamber music piece and listen to each movement in order, one by one with attention recalling the refrains in a way that connects the music all together…like one bead, after another, and another strung together on a silk cord.
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