Middle of the night, wide awake. Moon towards its back half, face flattened from the left temple in, as if passing behind a wall, or run into it. Insect noise a blanket over everything, each sound a single song, a tiny thread weaving through the vast hymn of the night, easy to follow once you decide to try: you can hear that one creature's entire song, listen to its whole story — or the part of it you are there to attend — and sense its place in the chorus of its fellows. If you allow your attention to soften, to take in the whole, but then again return to that one tale, you can find it, with a little practice: and can *feel* that one creature's voice, the one you have come to know, however fleetingly, from giving it your regard if only for a few moments.

From this prospect, at the window, kneeling on the bed, elbows on the sill, face to the dark gleaming world, every kind of singer (or player — whatever you call a being whose entire life, in this moment, is given over to making music with its whole body) — every kind of musician, we were saying, makes the same kind of song, but each song is itself and not another. We (I represent all Listeners in this) are the ones who think of the work of these Artists (let us call them) as their Work, the Work, the Thing, all their songs One Thing, Music — in order that (you fear) we can leave it behind and go consider other Things, and yet retain possession — or rather to *gain* possession of The One Thing, bring it with us in our gear, as we do with our clothing, our tools, provisions. We claim this Song as a Thing, make it ours, by giving it a Name — say, "NightbugNoise" — and then we can salt our talk with it, share it with others, which records it in some way, allowing it to be passed on beyond our ken, preserved, traded, perhaps even bought and sold; whatever the case, taken out of its time and place, and kept there.

How far we have come from that peace of the middle of the night, awake, the soft rounded hills drenched with song and silver light! More agitated than ever, more anxious to feed that frenzy, or to escape it, to be anywhere but here, frantically fiddling the same mad tune, over and over...