Nothing remarkable about it, but leaking over like a bag of transplant-grade human kidneys onto the couch last evening, with that familiar dubious scrapple odor even the dog won't sniff more than twice, I somehow managed to work the arcade crane game I call a right arm--the left is more in the family of a putrescent scallion, to play a nice record of Vasary's Chopin.
I mention it because there are moments when connections to that brighter world are scarce, and in their scarcity the urgency brightens with its surroundings--and in doing so do we observe how some are best that way. When one is down another says, 'It's alright pal, I've been there'. Must we not look to the surface where the sun above is already striking and say, too, 'I've been there'?
I'd like to think so--and so plainly, as if only in the self-dignification that emboldens speech above sleeping expression where we are--you can rely on this, not found for one another.
Also, I just wanted to recommend Tamas Vasary's Chopin (Deutsche Grammophon ST 136 452).