Champagne from Florence, 1892?
Why, yes, I’d love some.
Music is a bodily experience, even when light: a bullet, champagne filled, splattters throughout the sternum, makes its way through the arms – presumably it is its access through the cranium that commands the feet to move in something resembling Saint Vitus’s dance.
Why do we desire to compare music to nature? If I’d have been Casanova, I suppose I would have projected every inexistent atom of music into the bared ankle of the woman next to me. I do know: it’s horrible, uncontrollable, tragic, maddening. As uncontrollable is the urge to dance. Music, a typhoon, coffee bubbling over the pot on Sunday morning? All the same, seams tied together, ripped apart, and sewn back.