If it was represented in music then these periods of wonder at the astonishing fact of presence would be strange oases in, but also out of, the flow of musical development. They don't answer any questions, or respond to any call, or lead to anywhere, and they have a tenor which is neither a positive nor a negative state, neither active nor passive, a subdued quality which reads perhaps as a kind of cosmic nostalgia in which desire and passion are disengaged, are put into neutral. If the unfolding drama, or dharma, has no place for them, then equally they give no place to it; emotions viewed from here seem deliberately chosen and unnecessary, not prompted by any genuine desires of yours but by a random selection out of all the desires that are in play, out of the great noisy process of the world, which is properly yours only in its entirety or not at all. The lie is the selection, and the illusion that you are that selection.