ColèreThe lute,mine, that I never had,broke on the darkgray ground.Rage at the groundand unseen handsat the luteand never having.
"No, all I mean is this, that when I open staring wide my eyes I see at the confines of this restless gloom a gleaming and shimmering as of bones, which was not hitherto the case, to the best of my knowledge. And I can even distinctly remember the paper-hangings or wall-paper still clinging in places to the walls and covered with a writhing mass of roses, violets and other flowers in such profusion that it seemed to me I had never seen so many in the whole course of my life, nor of such beauty. But now they seem to be all gone, quite gone, and if there were no flowers on the ceiling there was no doubt something else, cupids perhaps, gone too, without leaving a trace." Beckett, Malone Dies, 1952/56
my favourite extract about silent/broken music:Here lies Lon Riley.He hath not lute nor lyreand mourns ithardly.4:33am.Song eatsits own tailand loosesits cookiesthereby.Riley, The Scurvy Tunes