AN Octopus concerto
We are shoving tradition, like an octopus, through innumerable crevices of invention– everyone alive is, and cannot help but do so. The past is a dream, its latent normalcy an oneiric apparition; only the now lives awake; only the octopus squeezes through to the present.
The music’s got nothing to do with it, except it’s an octopus concerto– one particular octopus thrust through the crevice of one particular moment.
