Dream of a musical tomb that shall cocoon the mind into an uninterrupted and black slumber, from which even the annihilation of matter won't disrupt the darkness. Lulled to a soothing sleep that will either result in a revival by fire, or a clean quiet death. An urge for the aquatic resting place at the spine of the Atlantic, beyond the black abysses and the shiny creatures to the blue ones and the dancing plants.

Dear Master of Harmonics, dearest artist to my heart, most cherished soul of my soul, creator of skin more coherent to me than my own, how do you keep on? And how do you keep on giving and everfolding?

Tell me please, grant me an answer, please.