“These storms are too strong on the sea of my winter,”1 she said.
“I frequently experience moments of nausea in bookstores at the thought of adding one more page to all that fucking print,”2 he said.
“My life sounds like a Penderecki tune,” she said.
“I like Penderecki,” he said.
“What about Górecki?” she asked.
“Yes, Górecki as well,” he replied. “Pärt?”, he asked.
“Love,” she replied, simply. “In my dark hours, I have the certain feeling that everything outside this one thing has no meaning. The complex and many-faceted only confuses me, and I must search for unity. What is it, this one thing, and how do I find my way to it? Traces of this perfect thing appear in many guises and everything that is unimportant falls away.”3
“Also, Arvo is a great first name.”
“It is. I pretty much hate everyone who is trying to communicate with me via words.”
“Understood,” he said, finally. He opened the window to let more of the nocturnal sounds in. The crickets. The frogs. He lit a candle and a stick of Nag Champa. He sat down at the old, weathered upright piano and played the simple notes.
Originally written August 2019.