I don’t think they do matter. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. She called them back very soon. When I went I was refused admittance. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. “Concern me!” she repeated fiercely. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. A pretty piece. They fight over money all of the time. " "I'll bet she still smells to heaven with sour coconut.
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