Standing, back to harbor wind, weather-beaten pastel teacups and carousel rattle across the waterway when I'm not sure I'm hearing music, or cloud, or what I'm hearing's music, phantom sound becomes my expectations for a moment, drifts back out into white noise, red metal, air, is composed, then is not. Recognition accompanied by brief disappointment, then turned away from. How to go about a life inside, perpetual discordant electronic hum. Unless in expectation resides the only music I can love, how to love what one cannot expect, how to create a space to trap, enclose whatever approaches, omni-capable receptors, mutation damned or made obsolete, made into buzzing structural unease or leaf caught in radiator, whirring. Recognition ushers in both love and distraction, and isn't that the point, the place moved toward across the event horizon. What is unrecognizable, in becoming recognized, gains status but also form, an expected form, for future love, for time run backward. For remembering how in advance. And for this, keeping secrets close, even those that would only provide solace, and for this keeping love on the edge of recognition. Is it music, a sound at all.