The Horse Could Not Do

If It Weren't For Music, I Would Think That Love Is Mortal.

He Knew Very Well That Love Could Be Like The Most Beautiful Singing, That It Could Make Death Inconsequential, That It Existed In Forms So Pure And Strong That It Was Capable Of Reordering The Universe. He Knew This, And That He Lacked It, And Yet As He Stood In The Courtyard Of The Palazzo Venezia, Watching Diplomats File Quietly Out The Gate, He Was Content, For He Suspected That To Command The Profoundest Love Might In The End Be Far Less Beautiful A Thing Than To Suffer Its Absence.

Perhaps Things Are Most Beautiful When They Are Not Quite Real; When You Look Upon A Scene As An Outsider, And Come To Possess It In Its Entirety And Forever; When You Live In The Present With The Lucidity And Feeling Of Memory; When, For Want Of Connection, The World Deepens And Becomes Art.

Then The Bow Orchestra Began To Play An Apocalyptically Beautiful Canon, One Of Those Pieces In Which, Surely, The Composer Simply Transcribed What Was Given, And Trembled In Awe Of The Hand That Was Guiding Him.

No One Ever Said That You Would Live To See The Repercussions Of Everything You Do, Or That You Have Guarantees, Or That You Are Not Obliged To Wander In The Dark, Or That Everything Will Be Proved To You And Neatly Verified Like Something In Science. Nothing Is: At Least Nothing That Is Worthwhile.