The most wonderful thing about music is that one can say everything in it, so that he who knows understands everything; and yet one hasn’t given away one’s secrets — the things one doesn’t admit even to oneself.
“The plain was dry and cold and covered in an icy sheet for there had been no sun in that place, no font of warmth, until one chimeric morning the sun first dawn above the distant hill and spanned the horizon line with its pallid and steaming glare illuminating the new cerulean firmament and below it the shades of the Earth came to life as if a brush were dragged over paper, a watercolor iconography captured across mossy stone.”
Aidan Scott | The Garden