interjection
Bach's Art of Fugue has held me in its thrall for the past two days. I can't stop listening to it: the startling, precise intensity, interwoven with all those calm spaces between the contrapuntals, speaking volumes of baroque melancholy. The Goldberg Variations are melancholic too, but I can miss them in the warm, comforting way one misses waking up next to a familiar lover in the mornings; whereas the Art of Fugue is the wrench of separation, of a love that's never to be.
I've been occupied with the present, and writing is about setting the past; thus, less of that, recently. Perhaps this will change soon, when I finally crack on properly with my dissertation.