Protected: The Flute

I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space,were it not that I have bad dreams. ― The Tragedy of Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2 Translucent, fadinga dream evaporates---intruding neck cramp.A sonorous harmony driftsdistant, sinuous, entwinedwith a diaphanous melody.A cricket quiets,Mr. Cat stops purring---asleep, still---as if listeningto dreams...In the distancethin, keeninga door hinge relaxes;the living room clocksounds three.I count, silent.My haunting housewarbling, distorted phantasm---a ruptured ear drumunder water.Descending:[a flutter],breathy and soft---a melancholy sighlands in sorrow---a metastable plateau.Does it rise, or fall?Newton does not say.Bach is silent.A seed of apprehension swellsamidst hazy serenityalone on a plaintive expanse.[Anon, Listen]…the harmony, fadinginto its ownisolatednothingness.Yet---pure, clearthe lonesome melody lingers---am I imagining?---a delicate crystallizationsoaring, fallingin minor thirdsthe vaporous [sound] evanesces...Until sleep, oblivionblossomat last

Aperiodic Wanderings

astronomicalish musings

Protected: The Flute

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