Mark nodded even though she couldn't see. He'd suddenly lost any desire to talk, and his plans for a perfect day washed away with the stream. The memories. They never let him go, not even for a half hour. They always had to rush back in, bringing all the horror.

The sun, rising and setting in splendid colors, never grows tired of its admirers__uch like a lady, aglow with grace, never grows tired of chivalrous acts or pretty flowers.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

Now to life...I grant you the ability to give, to take, to expedite, to wander, to love, to hate, to charge, to expend...All of life is beautiful for what it makes of us. With only this single shot, let us leap into the unknown with our eyes open and our hearts ready.

Scattered among these things are reminders that sound once existed: a metronome, a drumming pad, a guitar pick, a trumpet mouthpiece, a music stand, a tuning fork, a block of rosin...The older instruments bear the marks of those who have already played them, the scuffs and bites and dents that are the mysterious scars of sound. In their midst the house hangs, tenuous and enveloping, a sounding board waiting to be struck.

Do me a favor? Be a gentleman tomorrow?