We are who we are, be­cause of those we choose to love and be­cause of those who love us.

The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.

For when all else is done, on­ly words re­main. Words en­dure.

There is no pattern the human mind can devise that does not exist already within the bounds of nature...Everything we do, see, write, notate, all are an echo of the deep seams of the universe. Music is the invisible world made visible through sound.

The colour of the magpie, her father was saying, was symbolic of creation. The void, the mystery of that which had not yet taken form. Black and white, he said. Presence and absence.

Who's to say? Life is not, as we are taught, a matter of seeking answers, but rather learning which are the questions we should ask.