Though he had the instrument in his mouth, and appeared to be doing something, there was silence — then — what? — faint, pure sound, a single tone, where? outside? The note seemed to come from Queen's Park, so gracefully gliding, effortlessly towards the Isabel Bader Theatre, in through the walls, on stage, into his black shoes, up and out his throat into the clarinet and out into the hall, then glowing full and filling up to flood — almost — then out. Scattering other tones like the minutes of an hour, louder then farther. Urgent, scared, hungry! Deliberate disassociation from patterns, only hunger dreams, only fantastic, mysterious, inexplicable energy deep lodged in his gut, only sucking up secret from a soul, wingspan invisible across countries, blood that cycles through the earth as water.

In me, only sensations, no thoughts, though thinking is feeling, so I was a philosopher, my skin fell from the bones, the bones limp, the tendons faint, mouth dripping, paying no mind, feet numb, spine so serene, doped, paralyzed by sound — that note! Many sounds, the pitch itself, the frequency, the timbre riding it, and the two held in a net of overtones, seemed to correspond with something part of my body, what is there to know?