CONCERT IN THE CHURCH OF ST. JULIUS THE POOR

The oboe, somehow, gave me a glimpse of wisdom. It sang and sang,
and it seemed to say: yes, you were in despair, but see what we have
given you to hold in your hands? [“Bach, Bach, Bach-Bach-Bach,”
said the oboist to introduce his encore, and it sounded like “Backe,
backe Kuchen” (Bake-bake-a-cake in German) in the voice of a little
boy –in fact, my music teacher in high school (who was later accused
of molesting some boys in his choir) told us that with time, oboists in
general develop quirks and bouts of madness, because the immense
pressure affects the brain and mellows it]. So my skin felt cold and
a wave of goose pimples rushed over it, as it always will when I feel
part of a large design, and cosmic forces hold me in place. Tears
came into my eyes but they would not, could not grow because the
presence of other listeners next to me made my glands reverse them-
selves into organs of suction.

[LOST AND FOUND TIMES #19]

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