It is music.

Notes and phrases and counterpoint, black dots on a page and rosin dust in between the curves of the fingers. Tangible and present but far away. Irrelevant. Distracting. It is chords and harmonies resonating, both too loud and completely soundless, humming like bees in a swarm between the ears, a vibration of perfect pitch between the eyes, a quarter-tone of difference deciding pain or pleasure. Both.

It is music.

The quiet of pleasant company, the pull of horse hair on the wire-wrapped insides of a once living, breathing creature, brought back to life by a now living, breathing creature. Once silence, now music. Once nothing, once dead, now alive. Now whispering, soothing, chasing away nightmares in the early hours of morning. Now screeching and crying, throwing tantrums in dissonance when it's too much, too much. Now it's too much. Just there. And again.

It is music.

The noise of an empty room, blood rushing in activity from fingers to wrists, to arms to shoulders, to neck to pulse, beating, beating, beating in tempo. Largo, larghetto, adagio, adagietto. Rhythmic and fluid and quiet, so quiet. Pianississimo. Soft as breath, quiet as nothing at all. Nothing at all.

It is music.

Slashes of ink on fresh parchment, lines of a staff empty and suffocating, demanding the ear, the eye, the hands, the pen, the mind whirling, whirling with idea after idea. Minor, diminished, augmented, relative major, dominant ninth, suspension hanging just there, just there, on paper, in time, in a fraction of history split between composers and styles and it is music. Just there and again, it is music.

It is music like life is music, like thunder and water and passing cars is music. It is music like each labored breath is music, a breath for each heartbeat, breath beat breath beat breath beat. Andante, moderato, allegro, prestissimo. Prestissimo and forte. No, fortissimo, too much, too much, not enough, not enough. Not enough. A little bit more. There. Just there. And again.

It is music.

It is music and it is John. Ah, yes. It is John. Affettuoso, tenerezza.

It is John like focus and knowledge and understanding is John. It is John like vibrato on the A string is John, like Mahler's Symphony No. 5 is John. It is John like sentiment is John. A passing comment, a cup of tea, a watchful eye and a messed up sock index. A frustrated sigh and a bit not good. A giggle at a crime scene. Scherzando, giocoso, brilliante. It is John and it is music and it is life and it is John. It is all John. Obvious. Obvious? Wait.

Rather, tries to be John, pretends to be John, is as close to him as possible and still not close enough, peeling wallpaper in brown fleur de lis trying desperately to stay in place. A distraction, a reminder. Seven percent of a failed illusion. A solution lacking quality and John and rightness and John and focus, focus, can't focus. Can't think. Need to think. Need him. Need to think. Need John. Need to think. Just there, just a bit more. And again.

It is what music should be. It is what music can be. But it can never be him, obvious now. Nothing can be him. Nothing is John but John. Yes. Nothing but- Just a little bit more. Just a little bit more, and again, and rubato. Just more, just there, just one more and-

It isn't him. Isn't enough.

Just one more hit, one more dose, one more shot and-

It is music.

It is music like he is music. And in that way, it is him. It is him.

"John."