Silence can be beautiful, despite the void of music it necessitates. In fact, in some ways, silence is its own form of music, or perhaps just the inescapable dichotomy from whence the emptiness gives birth to sounds. Yet one cannot exist without the other: like man and woman, where woman in the void of her womb gives creation its first soulful cry. Then women must be the basin of silence that both harvests and yearns for music, while men, in their constant melancholic ballad, seek repose in the emptiness of a rest. This seeking outside of oneself causes the unbearable isolation of aloneness: severed by silence or sound. Understanding one, yet longing for the other. Sharing music – creating it, morphing it, pursuing it from the depths where it resonates – remains the only way to breach that desperate longing. This is what we search for, restlessly, in the few years that contain our life. The few years that accelerate into a crescendo that grows beyond our grasp.