In the Beginning, there was nothing.

       Then, a streak of wind-lipped notes. The swell of a horn like the first wing-beats of a bird, sudden and solidifying in my center. And a burst of blue flame, breathing, pulsing, in a vacuum of held breath.

       Midnight.

       A dome of expanding melody, eased apart and distinguished by the gradual introduction of infinitely rare instruments. The lyrics were painted through oceans and earth, a pounding of drums like the crash of waves against a cliff face. The instruments faded as the plucking of strings brought forth the image of a river galloping under frozen ice, droplets clinging to frosted grasses. The harp's silky cords grew louder, lacing together the voices, giving them depth and breath.

       As small souls sparked, the song pranced from a silver brass trumpet, learning the colors of the sunrise and sunset in imperfect harmony.

       I counted six bars, then rested.

       But I must tell you, I was never asleep.