A single caress expresses love. The petting and dancing as two parts connect, as they become one. It never lasts, though, as the steadily tapping foot must part with its swaying pedestal after time. Even if the toes were faithful, and stayed in their loving bond for eternity, the fire of desire would burn out, leaving the fruit of the final caress on the curb, without love, in the air. After a moment of ringing silence, the dancing continues, and the floor is painted with the passionate lovers who part only to find each other in sound and silence above the world.

The love is whole, and the tempo andagio, but after a pregnant moment, the love gives birth, and from the world of dancing and caressing and heartfelt notes laid out on doorsteps, a new meter is born.

Hammers strike, strong and true, bringing forth a quality of tone only accomplishable by those strong enough to wield such hammers. The notes become shorter, for this meter knows not love, but only a fickle and playful desire. Such a fire brings pain, and that separation between black and white that drives society to fire creates gaps between the love and the desire.

Those striking hammers of truth and faith ring a new message loud and clear: black and white will never meet! But love has other things in mind, as it manipulates the signature of the universe, and black and white become one!

Regardless of meter change, the lovers meet for eternity, in sorrow and in merriment, and their love brings forth a new form of caress, and the air becomes filled with the emotions left in their hearts by their secret meeting.

Passion drives the striking and the caressing, and the strikers and caressers are filled with such smooth passion that, even as the tempo changes, and sempre staccato – the adversary of all that is legato – fights for its rights and its battlefield, the imperishable passion resonates in the enlightened air with a ferocity akin to wildfire. Passion is that which drives us through our phantasmagorical reality, and desire is what keeps us alive through the accidents masquerading as signature changes in reality’s fabric. Passion is fire.

But fire destroys. The passion that dances, hammers, and resonates does destroy only itself, for does this tune not end? Nothing is eternal, not even love. After all, how much can a fermata hold? Like memory, a fermata can hold the long forgotten notes written by hand and delivered to desire in the dead of night, but not the passion. Nothing can hold the passion.

And as life and light shine true and bright, the last languid legato love-letter lusts listlessly, urging forward with lethargic desperation that which can only be replaced by the desire itself. Of course, at this late hour the desire has departed to the dreamland from whence it came. Naturally, the soul settles for passion, and as a result, his instruments of both sorts are filled with an empty tone, and set about a world that will never recover.