“...And all the while, accompanying my every step, The Photographer is sounding in my head, purling incessantly through my clamped-on Walkman; it's a good piece, Glass's homage to Muybridge, minimalism used to maximal effect: with its repeating rhythms, endlessly rechurning, the music resembles a wave that doesn't move, a standing wave; that's what you listen to, the change and unchange of the wave, not any emergent melody: listening not above, but within;”

“No matter what these people say about me, my music doesn't glorify any image. My music is spiritual when you listen to it. It's all about emotion, I tell my innermost, darkest secrets.”

“When children listen to music, they don't just listen. They melt into the melody and flow with the rhythm. Something inside starts to unfold its wings - soon the child and the music are one.”

“Then, as a single snowflake flares and flickers upon voicing its final breath, so two eyes make silent conversation with mine. A face as iridescent as candle-fire purls verse and poetry. My eyes read her every intent as a wave of recollections floods my senses.”

“It's only now, looking back, that I see how you patched through my walls, and entered my life, in waves.”

“It's calm under the waves in the blue of my oblivion.”