Phantasmagoria

Her life is a symphony onto itself. Her notes, be they high or low, cacophonous or discordant, mellifluous or melodic, mix together at the command of her invisible conductor. Her unseen hands rise and fall, gesticulating wildly from zenith to nadir, to and fro, like the Devil in the Book of Job. She lives in a phantasmagoria of pain and pleasure, flung in an erratic pattern that falls outside of conventional physics, but relishes in quantum chaos.

But outwardly, her stillness appears to the wayfarer. For no orchestra can be heard in the Halls of Foxy, her sonatas were inspired by pantomimes and performed by those with no voices. Yet, I do hear her, ever so loudly, not by timbre or pitch, vibrato or power. But I hear her still. For I understand that as with all music, it is not just the notes that are played that form a song , it is what is found in the spaces between that makes all the difference.

Hidden from the world, but not from me, is an adagio for strings, waltz and threnody.

Combined as one, ever changing from the last, are lyrics never sung by voices from the past.