Sometimes before dawn everything is clear as snow. The light thickens. The sky is filled with diamonds. The universe hums with wind and sun.

The solar wind is magnetism, gravity. Neither of which we understand. The world is driven in the end by all the things we don’t understand.

Like the Yeti, words reduce monsters, or miracles, to names. Words hide the real dark. Words mask space, like fog, which holds the sky together.

Existence is a walk. A direction. Every note predicts every other note. One sun is all you need to predict a world of suns. Or a path. A footprint predicts a plot. A metronome-shaped rock is exposed in the snow.

A fingerprint is all you need for a future. Like a Beethoven sonata, a new world is built from the first few flakes of snow. In its beginning is its end.

The piano is unaware of the attack of the Yeti.

You can see a metronome at the bottom. A metronome is a symbol of time. Time which structures our lives as children at the piano, and as virtuosi in the concert hall.

An obelisk is frozen time, a ray of sun descending from the clouds, a sun pillar inscribed with hierogylphs which are a manual for the music of the spheres.

And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
The bell.
—T. S. Eliot, The Four Quartets

The Yeti sees itself in the music stand. Pianos hold a mirror up to ourselves. We see ourselves reflected in music.

The whole of the world hides in its parts.

A piano is a secret, not easy to open.

Pianos descend from the coffin family. Half of music is the silence that surrounds it. Life and death tumble downhill in a constantly reversing blur.

Like an obelisk, the stick and the lid rise to the sky, a salute to the sun god.

A man stands alone
Fixed in a cone of light
On the curve of the land
And, suddenly, it is night.

Ognuno sta solo
sul cuor della terra
trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera