Very few moments are like those beautiful negative afterimages that appear for a second or two inside our dark, misty heads and then disappear into an abyss of dusty, deep crevices of unwilling oblivion. Very, very few moments, again, out of these, occasionally float back onto the delicate surface of old, blue memories tainted with fragile, moth-eaten pages of maroon and gold diaries. Of dried tear-marks. Of transparent fingerprints scattered around the keys and reeds and stops and bellows like the crispy leaves of Fall. Of long-forgotten tunes echoing back from antiquity to merge into the songs of today.
Such a moment was that moment, one of the very, very few.
I don’t know if I can live up to its bouquet of promises.