The quiet notes of an unfinished symphony are all that we need to write a melody for the song of tomorrow.
The quiet refrain of a chorus of near-muted voices cannot deter the harmony from erupting as a sunrise from behind a craggy mountain top.
But what is your note and what of your rhythm?
And what of your solo and of your solution?
The simple needs of nothing more and rarely less is something that cannot fathom the changing tides of a yesterday that was never dreamt.
And without a dream and without a doubt and without the weather and without the wind and without the nothings of sweetness whispered in the darkness of the mornings; there is no love.
For the quiet notes of an unfinished symphony are all that we need to write a melody for the song of tomorrow.
