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While I am
drunk, I float because my foot feels soft. One day, I floated into a
building on the top of a hill. It has the aura of a golden palace - it is
here that people learn the making of music and art. As I tiptoed along its
hallways from door to door, I first heard a young maiden, perhaps talking
to herself, on a violin, and then a tenor, a man singing alone at late
night when everything else falls asleep. From the basement, however, came
the devastating sound of a drum, incessant, overwhelming the violin, the
tenor..., hollowing my heart
while my eyes saw a great number of contenders on a brutal battlefield. How
could abstract notes convey things so real? It seemed like a virtual tour
of the human condition. I also saw tiny dim practice rooms with organs in
them. Before, I had seen glorious performances only in the concert hall,
and always loved the elegant glow of musical instruments on the stage, but
didn't know the making of art actually happened in such squeezed places.
Maybe the glory of art is all about "squeeze" - squeezing pearls
out of squeezed human existence.
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