Read with your spine, and let it bend from a maddening masturbation. Doctor PhD – please, inject the atomized particles of music into these veins. A pianist, those fingers, can do as much. Lines are strung, and sinews are stretched with fibers of steel encased in wooden flesh. Asynchronous refractions permeate through those splintered fingers, degenerating into quivering palpitations and sweat. Those who sit to play at this mechanism are impelled from nothingness to nothingness, as anabasis and katabasis collapse into oblivion, un-finishing. Dissolution is the product of a restless mind, a meticulous mania. Who can think of a stage with more than one piano?
NB: If you find this music strikes a nerve, or this publication overtly ambitious, here is a prescription signed 4/4 just for you: the tonic is some aspirin.
I think that music must be hysteria and collective spells, violently of the present.
The artists I admire [...] have not followed tradition but have been able to force tradition to
follow them.Pierre Boulez