Frank Corcoran

Be still, bí cúramach, my composing soul.
Masks and clever posturings tonight removed, the naked fact is:
Vast sonic sludge filthsglobally. Globally it cheapens my listening, my normal human thrust towards understanding any music – how I might possibly make sense of sixteen bars? – of thirty two ” symphonic ” phrasings and their answerings and , well, my BUILDING.