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.