About a certain piece of music.
Perhaps it began as a vague light, something chased rather than understood.
Over time, the elements aligned by chance, spread outward, and gained stability.
And then, inevitably, another force emerged within it — the impulse to destroy everything it had become.
There is a moment like that.
I find myself wanting to call it a miracle.
Like pasta cooked al dente — finished for an instant, and already on its way past perfection.
Beyond that point, the path divides.
One may continue subtracting, moving toward zero.
Or one may be forced to keep adding, expanding, and growing heavier with structure.
There is beauty in ending briefly.
And there is greatness in choosing to continue at all costs.
As someone who only listens, it would be presumptuous to say more.
Still, it is only the sound from that “miraculous moment” that continues to resonate within me.
Everything else, however unfairly, I find myself unable to accept.
I choose to recognize myself simply as one honest — if arrogant — listener.