Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.
I think that there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself than this incessant business.
But only a brief moment is granted to the brave one breath or two, whose wage is the long nights of the grave.
But maybe music was not intended to satisfy the curious definiteness of man. Maybe it is better to hope that music may always be transcendental language in the most extravagant sense.
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