Lately, I haven't been the most talkative. It feels like a phase—I'm sure it is—it's sort of like I'm sitting at a perfectly clothed dinner table, knees bumping into the stick holding it up, wine and cheese being served, the gripping grain of resiny strings (played much like a cat swats at a scratching post) reverberating throughout the room. I've always been a sucker for a deep cello line, it's sort of like walking through a park and finding one of your feet stuck inside some very clumpy, pulpy earth—not loose like quicksand, but just as I said, gripping. And it pulls you in.
In such a vast universe, there's always room for more orchestration. Because when they drop out, what's left behind is the tension that underscores even the most "ordinary" moments of our waking lives.