{Building a mansion with an assortment of minerals.}
{Tied up by longing.}
{If you had not gone away.}
{Waiting for the shadows to begin their dance.}
{Never far away.}
Instantly the room was populous with sounds of melodiousness, and mournfulness, and wonderfulness; the room swarmed with the unintelligible but delicious sounds. The sounds seemed waltzing in the room; the sounds hung pendulous like glittering icicles from the corners of the room; and fell upon him with a ringing silveryness; and were drawn up again to the ceiling, and hung pendulous again, and dropt down upon him again with ringing silveryness. Fire-flies seemed buzzing in the sounds; summer-lightnings seemed vividly yet softly audible in the sounds.
Herman Melville
Pierre: or, The Ambiguities
(As quoted in I listen to the wind that obliterates my traces: Music in Venecular Photographs 1880–1955, Steve Roden, published by Dust-to-Digital, Atlanta Georgia.)
Summer Sunday sounds, sitting in pyjamas still, legs folded up beneath me, scanning recent postcards in batches of five. The scanner loud and out of time yet in step with the recorded sounds of several hundred canary birds Reaching for the Moon (Roy Smeck Trio) and other musical delights. Crackle, whirr, scratch, glide, I need not tell you it is a good day.
