Yesterday´s ( my ) ” Yeatsian” to ” Keatsian” was a cheap e-shot; justified, if at all, by this maestro´s , well enough, laudable attempt to paint My Garden´s colour-passage from, say, this last Monday to moon-lit / anti-Sapphic this night. Killer mother cat, ” lovely”, sharpens her four daughters´ killing, pouncing paws on a/their thankless lizard which she then offers us as breakfast toast. Darwin chilled. Only this morning can I even attempt ( the lowest garden storey has that Septimber venticello ) first orchestral sketches of my future Orchesterkind , ” QUASI UNA FANTASIA ” , in fact, in scrolled fact a paean. What ?
Great paeaning brass will paean-like celebrate my e-being, my scribe-I-love-thee, my trust in
WHICH symphonic, – strings/ woodwind/ percussion et full, full, FULL. Very full. ” Full”.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN ? ” I DIE ” ?
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