Music, like life, is an eternal beginning at every moment, a perpetual overture.

My life is music: like an eagle rises into flight carried by the ascending currents, it soars like a Bach fugue, whispers inner recitatives, as Adriana Lecouvreur would in the foyer of a theatre far from the audience.

I often find myself courting silence more keenly with its infinite nuances.
And I wonder if I have ever truly heard it.

I find myself listening to the timbral tinkling of instruments rehearsing before the performance, to the sound of tuning strings, to musical hints resembling brushstrokes, to percussions striking, evoking the birth of the universe or the first creator sound, and then I think that perhaps silence has a truer music, that between the notes, as Mozart reminds us.
I am music (I am, I play, share the same root). We are sound. In music, we become music and it becomes us. Like a bundle of vibrations, it brings us back into harmony, like an original voice striking our consciousness and writing time upon it.ù

Consciousness becomes a score and retains in it, tearing it from history, absolute time.

Here, far from the noise of the world, like in the Recherche, the truest hour lives, the one in which we can hear life while it plays itself.