Music, more than any other is the form of art for consumption. It can organise the divergent tendrils of half-grasped notions and half-felt feelings into a sort of journey into yourself, into the arc of a self-abandon and self-discovery that produces the feeling of your having gained something without actually giving you anything at all, only the memory of perhaps having touched on some long-forgotten inner possession or birthright. Filled with air you grow to the stature of the musical statement and then with the release of a few cadences you shrink back into yourself. In certain respects it is the opposite of dreaming mind, which also operates on the fringe of latencies accumulation around the stream of defined experiences. The latter pushes the divergences, it is the very idea of disorder at Key West, it doesn't collapse superpositions but extends them into their inevitable narrativity. The stories in dreams have no sequence of beginning, middle and end, if anything they are all at once, or if you like all middle, but a middle that twists and dances the ends and beginnings out of which it is formed. Music exists within a longing for the other, no matter how much it sublimates or flatters such a longing, while dreams are the real and uncanny presence of the other within the heart of the self.