When the end of a song "fades to black," it goes on that way forever, you just can't hear it. Which is kind of like dying in your sleep, vs. flying off a cliff and exploding.
I am expected to say something, but have nothing to say. I could try fill lyrics—"doo n' doo n' doo doo" and "hey hey, my my"—but that would probably be wrong; what works in song rarely works in life.
The right song at the wrong time, or the wrong song at the right time? I'm drunk, I know it by heart, and my misery spirits me up like a bag in a gust.
In this state of mind, I can't decide: Am I more angry w/ myself when I find angry music funny, or more angry w/ music when I find it sounds like a beer commercial.
The trick to classical music is to imagine it's the extrinsic soundtrack to your day. You can't hear it, but the audience can.
Waltz time corresponds to the rhythm of sweeping the cellar. The minuet is getting your picture taken w/ someone famous. The gavotte corresponds to laughing too hard and falling off the balcony.
Music always fails in execution—better to read sheet music. When subjects "listened" to Mozart's Requiem on paper during a brain scan their auditory cortex caught fire.
The symphony was so engaging because the conductor's hand-written note at the top of the second movement read Live bunnies! Running loose!
What if I'm never walking through the woods alone and hear an incomprehensibly exquisite music?
If I have to go, I want music to murder me like a death star galaxy: in a deadly jet of radiation and heat.
In come the violins—giant crickets using their back legs like kindling.
