Scene 4

Here it goes, the list, after several years of departure, reunited with me. The textures, and stares, and ripples of the fingers on the strings. Everything was so perfect and fragile. Through the darkest moments I used to learn that there existed once in history a way worse form of living. And I was contented. But now the distant tragedy groans within me and doesn’t let go. My compulsive syndrome almost out-burst into a disorder. Time and time again I attempted to terminate this afflicting in vain.

And the next thing I knew was daylight. Another day another word possibly another form of life. Awakening was always the most joyous moment, even though the man in the mirror always looks aghast and worn out. Then there was food to think about, food for thought mmm, and there was the melody. And the light was on and the next thing I knew was the 36364313 notes after notes, crispy and cautious, on this precious spring morning-noon. My notes convolved with Perlman’s recording ten years ago and engraved on shadows of the holocaust in my brain. There’s plenty of thought even without food. Then the notes went wrong, like pebbles in a roaring river being washed and crashed to the bank. And I had to stop this delectable musical moment and get washed and fed for the day.

And yet I could not understand my obsession for the list. Was it the picture itself or the time I first got to see it, that has been clinging on me ever since and synthesized dozens of self-compulsions?

3636, 4313, 12123.