Music has been haunting me. In the car, too and from, always by myself with it. Postcards floating in, stamped from another time; reminding, haunting, coming to life like the memory of pain under the spell of opium. Lucky to have had these elegiac moments, to have them. Whistling through space they dance distant, outlying, from across the valley walls, from between. Woozy and lost, drunken as the sound of a country harmonica drifting, a lone fiddle, a voice.
One early morning, weeks past, there was a train's whistle echoing through the hollow, or so it seemed. Lonely and plaintive in the way that only distant sounds can be, little matter how near. The ear has a depth all its own, of considerable spaces. It can be found oftenest and easiest up close, alone, in low volumes. Remote sounds have always drawn me, lost sirens gathering near, pulling me in. Moving towards, and then away, they move through me like winds.
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