There is such sadness in the music that the Cello brings. A sadness capable of immense inspiration or it might unravel all fortifications that one makes around the soul. The Count said to the other courtiers - no he did not say he asked because he did not know himself - the secret of forgetfulness...

Why are we taught to fight all feeling? Especially feeling that might make us honest or vulnerable...Truth is fragile and often breaks like old women's bones. A broken heart. A scattered smile. The wish to draw tortoise shells on all the walls and breathe life into them...But

Never go so far that you may not return. After all death is so incurable. Static and stubborn like a finishing line. It takes away the beauty of a place, borrowing from it its eternity - never, never to return that moment of the sea.

This is who I am. Who I wish to be. Why must I fear that eye which looks at me. It is mine own. I must speak because this silence will drive me insane. Sometimes the music envelops me - lifting me from this room and beyond the forgotten owl's nest. Only sometimes.

Then what of those green burdens? Can I leave them for the cart to carry when it takes me away? Power, Courage, Honor, Right, Success - I try to believe in all these things. Perhaps I even do. And it shames me so the believing and the non-believing only because often I get greedy for an answer, which is which, who is who.

And then you say there will be time for everything.

Ah! that these days might have passed by a blue sea or in sun flower fields. But now these things; the blue sea, the goldmines of a sunflower field, aquatic life, other galaxies and the sadness in the music that the Cello brings - now they must be collected and pressed into folds of words - one day, a Spring day, to be found out again and thrown away into that place where we throw away everything that ever mattered.