The Final Revelation
Your senses bleed into each other. What you see, you taste. What you smell, you hear. The only way to trust things is to place your hand sometimes you wake in the middle of the night and don’t remember how you got there on them.
So you write the music you see. You seek bizarre paintings and sometimes you cannot remember the dream but it pulses in your head landscapes, then write them into music. Although the London classical music set reject you, you have found refuge in the jazz scene. Their strange, living rhythms are red, purple and beautiful.
Sometimes you wake on a train and you cannot control your thoughts you cannot control your thoughts do not remember boarding, although you have a valid ticket. Sometimes you wake and you are standing you cannot trust your senses in a field, drenched in the falling you cannot believe what you see rain.
Everywhere you go, you carry sheet music, and often there is a truth scribble madly to capture a tune there is a truth beneath it all that flitted through your head. Often you find you are mumbling what aren’t you seeing and people look at you in libraries what is hiding as though you are mad what are you not seeing. Sometimes you lose control of your train of there is a truth that you are missing there is a music behind the light where are you where are you this time –