sometimes
Sometimes the morning, my morning, calls for sounds of a classical nature, an orchestral nature. Sometimes as I wonder what it is that passes through the minds of men as they run their errands, as they pass through the world around me, the world that I can barely hear or see from my small home; sometimes the only thing I want is to drown in the sounds of Beethoven's Seventh, no matter how badly the record has been kept, no matter if pops and crackles mar the quiet passages. Sometimes all I want is to hear Horowitz upon the keys, with Scarlatti, Chopin, Liszt and Rachmaninoff . . .
Pure bliss when the world is at war with its very own Self . . .