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The Emerson Note, sustained in the air above the orchestra pit, long empty, would never fade, diminish or ebb.  Nor would it increase, expand or gain.

It is not often I ask my composers to conclude a symphony in such a way.  Not because it is irresponsible (for my life is nothing but a lack of response) but because The Note provides its best fortunes when it is treated as a rarity.  No one said this was necessary.  However the wealth speaks for itself.  The healings are irrefutable testimony.

Anyone could master it, perhaps. Probably.  I couldn’t.  But I didn’t try very hard, either. So I payed someone to do it for me. That’s obvious, isn’t it?

She woke me up while the sky was still an iron hangover too dull to contain color. “The car will be here in a few minutes, she said, “And I wanted you to look at me once more. I’m all ‘made up,’ you would say. Then I will disappear onto this city with my advantage of knowing your real name and your disadvantage of feeling so much sadness.”

The explosive charges have been put in place.  The switch is in my hand, ready to end The Emerson Note.




Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved