music is a very interesting medium.

people have always likened many things to following a rhythm. the spartans were taught dance and music so as to keep in formation while marching. blademasters seemed to dance as their swords whistled through the air, both in the eastern and western tradition. melee combat has been romanticized as a deadly dance of blows and counterblows, exchanged in an effort to secure a superior position. roman leigions to napoleons's armies are always accompanied by musicians that acted to help them march in step as well as sound out orders. modern infantry sing as they march. as violence is contained by music, the crescendo is held in the score. likewise, the flurry of our internal beat and song are contained by our musculature, our minds, and black and white.

it has begun. the battle-hardened quill dances on the parchment, mapping out its troubled path. it runs forward, retrogrades. it rebelliously skips from side to side. its dark, bloody trail mars the pristine white surface. apprehensively it crawls forward and pauses in respite. suddenly, it leaps across the white marble chasm, as if suspended by an ethereal hand. it lands in a dark inky puddle, shakes off the excess burden of muck and forges on. onward it creeps in an unpredictable manner, moving from one continent to another. finally, at its journey's end, it rests at a single point before the unavoidable snowfall begins. the final destination.

the chattering begins as a blur of motion dances across the coloured keys. black and white they were, and black and white they will be. the staccato is drowned by the melody. then, as suddenly as it started, it ends. so does the wanderings (wonderings?) for today.



Bertram awoke @ 9:00 PM with