Nameless Child
It’s a moment he must think on as he is secreted into safest sleep. The oboe descends from the lips, carrying itself from the body. When the principal violinist nods, a harmless bit of something vibrates out towards us. Its intention is to give the other musicians a block to sharpen their instruments against, a mostly forgotten progenitor of a note they chase to wear down. There is no name for this mournful song. It is not even a song, though it sounds the same each time they take it out—something before music. It holds to it the wires that reach the nerves. I close my eyes after the...
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