Sometimes the most beautiful music is music unadorned, music unarranged - music that's not even, perhaps, music. The patter of raindrops on the porch roof in the middle of a summer night. The rip of water, as Cleo jumps ambitiously into the mushroom pool against a background of untrained chorus of playful shrieks. The sound of L. to Cleo reading softly in the quiet hour before bedtime. Or, yesterday, the focused silence in the Toyota's back seat, as Cleo worked on her magnetic drawing board, before suddenly producing this sweet emblem of musical notes emanating from a flute: a silent, static melody that grew out of a brief ride on the highway:
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