One night he dreamed that he sat in a concert hall.

Giddy with joy, full of nervous anticipation, he awaited the performance of his own Symphony No. 3. A chime summoned the last members of the audience. The lights dimmed. Quiet settled. He watched, unable to move, as Zhuli walked onto the stage in a long blue dress. She searched the auditorium for him. Her hands were empty. He woke.

So now that she is very much beloved, she can no longer love; she is no longer there to love him although she has become a part of him.

Her hands are empty, so there is no music although there is a symphony to be played. He has wedded his art to her image; without her, what he has written has no sound, it is not music, just signs on a page.

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