Touch That Which We Cannot Possess

The master hovers over us, and the sound of stirred liquids floats in the hermetic air. I smell chimney soot, spring water, the urine of a child, alcohol, beeswax, oil; all coming together in this concoction bound to penetrate into our wooden fibers. At this point, my consciousness is shallow; I have yet to grow fully. Nevertheless, I know I embody another consciousness, older and larger-the consciousness of the sung and unsung instruments. Music is our core, our lifeline; and that is eternal.