What is music but living sounds?
What is poetry but a moving voice?
What is there that makes someone to grasp in his or her hands a merely trace of illusion?
Aren't you desperate for saying?
Are we desperate for hearing?
No bare truth is well accepted.
Keep it clean, keep it clear
Loud and feared.
P.s: This "piece of living" was written right after I watched the movie "The last station" about Leon Tolstoy.
