But all Sparrow wanted was time to sit in his room and write, he wanted to set down this music that came, unstoppable, unending, from his thoughts.

Could that be heaven for me too? A chair and a small table at a cafe by an ancient river, a book open, luminous in the fading light of evening — I remember writing about this wish earlier. To read, to balance the book against what could be seen in the world, and set thought to paper: there is safety in that, a kind of peace.

But my mind abhors quietude; I don't want this to be true, but I have discovered it to be the case. Left to itself, my mind begins to waste and fester; alive to others, it seeks out space to analyze, understand and devise. No, no music comes to me alone.


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