We had come home around midnight, and I had gone to sleep with the feeling that I had given the evening’s conversation the attention it needed. I had turned it over in my mind, allowed myself to feel its impact, and begun to understand why the criticism had reached so deeply into me. By morning, another part of the experience was asking to be felt, and the tears arrived with a force that drew my attention back into my body. Something in me was still listening, still finding its way through what had happened.
As I rolled with that feeling, I began to understand how much tenderness had been present in the original act of sharing. I had been speaking to a friend, someone whose friendship mattered to me, about a creative practice that has become an intimate expression of my spiritual life. Offering a person this kind of glimpse carries a quiet hope: that they will pause at the entrance, allow their eyes to adjust, and become curious about the world they are being invited to see.
He is a musician, and I had asked him about his music because I wanted to understand what he was making. When I began to speak about mine, his objections to artificial intelligence came to the center of the conversation, carrying a force I experienced as disgust. He told me that becoming a musician required learning to play an instrument, and I felt his words draw a boundary around a place where I had already found something meaningful. My songs were still waiting for their first encounter with his ears.
That detail remains tender as I return to the evening. The music itself was elsewhere, full of words and sounds and meanings that had accompanied months of my life, while we were speaking about the technology involved in its creation. I had hoped to share something of that life with him, and I experienced his response as a judgment arriving ahead of the listening. The distance between what I was offering and what he appeared to be hearing became the place where the hurt settled.
I can describe the experience from within my own life: the tone that reached me, the words I remember, the feeling of being dismissed by someone whose curiosity I had hoped to meet. His inner experience belongs to him, with its own history and meanings, and perhaps a later conversation will make some of those available. For now, I am attending to the part that is mine, giving it enough room to reveal why an exchange about music became a morning of such profound tears.
As the morning unfolded, my attention moved toward Quantum Body Dynamics, the integration practice through which I explore sensation, sound, movement, and a caring relationship with my body. I began thinking about the senses as ways of receiving and understanding an experience, allowing feeling to find expression through the movement itself. Two poems emerged from that attention, and I sensed the possibility that they might eventually become a song. Creation was finding a way to accompany me while the hurt was still present.
I want to hold that beginning gently, allowing the poems their own time and keeping the tenderness of the morning close to the story. I would have welcomed a conversation shaped by kindness, and that desire remains part of what I am learning. The work that followed belongs to my capacity to respond, to listen inwardly, and to give an experience a form I can live with. Its beauty grows from the care I bring to it.
My music is a spiritual assignment, a devotion through which I feel myself participating in something I am also trying to understand. I experience moments of creation as an inspiration from source, sometimes with a completeness that leaves me in awe: the sense of something becoming available all at once, carrying a feeling or an insight whose meaning continues to open over time. On some days I cry while creating; on others, the ease of the arrival brings a kind of astonished joy, and I stay with the work as closely as I can.
Around those moments is a long life of preparation, made of my practices, my connection with spirit, my higher self, and the attention I bring to dreams and the ordinary movements of a day. Incubation lives in that continuing relationship, gathering through listening and through the ways I return to myself. When something takes form quickly, I can feel how much of my life has been preparing the place in which it arrives, even as the moment itself retains its mystery.
The days afterward have their own quality of mystery, because I become a listener to what I have created and begin asking what it is showing me. I return to a phrase, follow the feeling carried by a sound, and notice where a familiar line begins to reveal another meaning. Understanding develops through these encounters, sometimes slowly enough that I recognize its arrival only after I have already begun living differently. The work and my relationship with it continue to develop together.
About six months into making music, I began to understand its place in my life with a clarity that allowed me to start releasing some of the albums. Many songs remain in my private library, where I can give them the attention their continuing presence invites. A recording can exist as a completed form while its meaning is still moving through me, and I have come to value that period as part of the creative life itself.
There is a particular intimacy in becoming familiar with a work before offering it to an audience. I begin to hear which passages stay with me after the recording ends, which words ask for reflection, and which feelings become available through movement. Time allows these relationships to gather depth, and the decision to share can emerge from a growing sense of readiness. I want to recognize that readiness in the way I inhabit the work, as well as in the fact that the work has taken form.
My book, Balancing Energies, became the blueprint from which this wider creative life began to grow. I had written down my desire to manifest universal peace, and the writing gave me a place to explore how inner peace might enter the world through relationships, daily choices, and the things we bring into being. I continue to return to that blueprint as I create music and imagine my company, discovering how these expressions belong to an inquiry I am living as I develop it.
Wonderworld is the larger vision taking shape through that inquiry, and its philosophy of language has become part of the way I attend to what I am making. I understand words as formative: they help direct attention, give an experience a shape we can recognize, and influence the possibilities we feel able to explore. A phrase can become a place of return, especially when it is carried in music and revisited through the body, gathering meaning through each encounter.
Affirmative language helps me describe the world I am choosing to cultivate. Words such as hope, curiosity, care, and possibility bring particular relationships into view, inviting me to ask how those qualities might become lived experiences. There is room within this language for grief, anger, uncertainty, and the need for rest, because an honest account of feeling can guide us toward the kind of care the moment is asking for. I want my words to make that care imaginable.
This is one reason the songs are dance songs. I am interested in the meeting of language and sound with a body that can respond, allowing a lyric to be heard while a rhythm invites movement and a feeling finds expression. In my own practice, moving with music gives me another way to stay with what I am experiencing, and sometimes a meaning becomes available in the movement before I can describe it in a sentence. Integration is the name I give to this continuing relationship between what I create and how I live.
I believe my soul will return, and I imagine leaving music that I might one day encounter with a recognition at soul level. Perhaps a phrase, a sound, or the feeling of a song could offer guidance for another soul mission, carrying something of this life’s inquiry into a form of being I can presently approach through imagination.
Even within this lifetime, I am learning what it means to make something for my future self. The person who returns to a song after months of living may hear a meaning that was still gathering when the song first arrived, and a work can become a companion across these changes. I feel tenderness toward that future listener, whether the listener is someone I will meet, someone who will find the music through an unexpected path, or another version of myself beginning to recognize what the work has been holding.
Hilma af Klint’s story gives this relationship with the future a historical presence. Her life inspires me to consider how a spiritual commitment can become a sustained creative practice, and how an artist might care for work whose fullest encounter with an audience belongs to a later time. As I learn about her, I am drawn to the patience of making, preserving, and continuing to investigate something that carried such significance within her own understanding of life.
Born in Sweden in 1862, af Klint participated in a spiritual circle of women known as The Five and understood some of her paintings as arising through spiritual guidance. She created works known as The Paintings for the Temple, giving sustained form to the commission she believed she had received. In 1932, she recorded a twenty-year interval after her death before her work should be shown, and she devoted substantial attention to preparing the archive that would carry it forward. She died in 1944.
Her efforts to understand and document the work bring me close to her story. The symbolic language of her paintings and Blue Books, through which the works could be studied and shared in another form. Here, the moment of inspiration extends into years of attentive care, with the artist becoming a reader of the very images she has brought into being.
I recognize the tenderness of that position: to receive something with conviction and then spending time discovering how to live in relationship with it. There is room for wonder in the interval, and there is room for the practical work of returning to a detail, recording a thought, or allowing an interpretation to mature. In my own music, I feel the value of that kind of patience whenever a song begins to reveal a meaning that has grown clearer through the life I have lived since making it.
Af Klint’s preparation also gives the idea of art for the future a tangible form. The paintings and notebooks were cared for across time, and later generations brought their own attention. The Guggenheim’s exhibition, Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future, became one major expression of that later encounter, allowing a wide audience to enter a visual world she had spent years developing.
Her archive offers evidence of sustained commitment, while the private textures of her days remain open to interpretation. I can imagine how confidence, longing, solitude, and curiosity might accompany a life organized around such work, and I hold those possibilities as questions. That care helps me understand the privacy I am seeking for my own work. A song held close can become a place of exploration, where I am free to listen repeatedly and discover the meanings it is still developing within me. As I consider when to share it, I can ask what the present stage of the work needs: quiet, further attention, a trusted listener, or a wider encounter. The answer changes as I change.
Jung’s Red Book brings another kind of private inquiry into this conversation, with pages that carry the continuing relationship between an inner experience and the effort to give it form. Publication became possible through a process of interpretation and care, as the people responsible for the manuscript considered how the public might encounter such a deeply personal work.
I find something helpful in that attention to context, because an invitation can influence the way a person approaches what is being offered. A few words about the life around a work may help a listener become curious about its particular language, or give a reader a way to understand the kind of inquiry unfolding on the page. The introduction creates a place to begin, and the encounter can then develop through the freedom of each person’s response.
Before that encounter, a work may have a long relationship with the person making it, serving as a place to explore experience while understanding is still taking form. I can imagine the importance of having enough privacy to revise an interpretation, follow an unexpected image, or simply live alongside a question for a while. In my own practice, that freedom gives me a way to remain receptive to what the work may reveal over time.
Emma Kunz offers a further expression of art as a spiritual and investigative practice. The Swiss artist used a pendulum and graph paper to create the geometric drawings for which she is now known, working within her own understanding of their significance. The Serpentine’s account describes her expectation that the work would be understood in the twenty-first century, and its public exhibition history began in the 1970s, following her death in 1963. During her lifetime, the drawings remained private.
The lives of Kunz, Jung, and af Klint each carry a particular relationship with spiritual inquiry, creative form, and the timing of public encounter. I am drawn to the sustained attention visible in their practices, and to the possibility of approaching their work with curiosity about what it meant within the lives that produced it. Their stories carry inquiry of how I can care for my own experience while remaining open to the understandings that time and experience may bring.
There is strength in creating places where an artist can be met with thoughtful interest while the work is still developing. Such places may be small, formed by a few people whose care allows a question to remain open long enough for understanding to grow. I feel the importance of finding that kind of company, and of becoming someone who can offer it in return. Listening can be one of the ways we help another person’s work remain alive in their own life. Centricle is a place where creators can be themselves while sharing what is becoming.
My curiosity about ‘world building force through sound’ led me to Plato who begins with his recognition that music participates in the formation of a culture. In Book IV of the Republic, he treats musical innovation as a matter with consequences for the political order, warning that changes in musical forms can accompany changes in a city’s laws. He approaches that power through the desire to guard an established order, placing music within a larger account of education and communal life.
I approach the relationship between music and culture through my own desire for creativity, freedom, and peace, finding in Plato a recognition of the scale at which music can matter. A song enters someone’s attention, accompanies a feeling, and may become part of the language through which an experience is understood. As people carry these encounters into their lives, music can participate in the habits of perception and relationship through which a shared world takes shape.
This is how I understand the cultural hope within my own work: I want the music to make certain qualities available for attention, inviting a listener to explore a feeling, a possibility, or a way of being. The encounter belongs to the listener as well, arriving within a life already full of memory and meaning. A lyric might become important through repetition, a rhythm might invite a moment of ease, or a song might wait until a later season to find its place.
I feel a particular beauty in allowing those possibilities to remain open. Someone may listen for the words, someone may respond to the sound, and someone may find joy in dancing while the meaning gathers quietly in the background. Love, as a creative intention, invites me to make the offering with care and give each person room to discover their own relationship with it. The music can then enter a world of encounters that continues to develop beyond the moment of its making.
The history of Impressionism offers a vivid encounter between an emerging visual language and the expectations of its first viewers. In 1874, Louis Leroy responded satirically to the first Impressionist exhibition, directing particular attention toward paintings whose visible marks and loose handling appeared insufficiently finished by the standards he brought to them.
As I read that response, I become curious about the expectations a person carries into the act of looking. Experience gives us ways of recognizing skill, completion, and meaning, and an unfamiliar work can ask those habits to stretch. The encounter becomes interesting at the point where we begin to notice both the painting and our own way of seeing it, allowing the work enough attention to reveal what its particular choices make possible.
Cubism offered another invitation to reconsider familiar appearances. The movement’s name became associated with a critic’s description of Georges Braque’s paintings in terms of geometric forms and cubes, while the paintings themselves developed ways of reorganizing the visible world.
I am interested in the moment before familiarity settles around a new form, when the language for speaking about it is still being made. A critic reaches for a category, an artist continues exploring, and viewers bring different kinds of attention to the encounter. Over time, these responses become part of the cultural life around the work, helping shape the ways later audiences learn to see. Curiosity gives that process room to develop through discovery.
For my own creative life, these histories make the present feel spacious. A judgment belongs to a particular encounter, shaped by what a person has heard, what they value, and the questions they are prepared to ask. I can take a response seriously while continuing to explore the work through other encounters, allowing understanding to gather from several directions. The life of a song can include that variety, and my relationship with it can keep growing as I listen.
Bach’s reception brings the question of musical values into focus. In 1737, Johann Adolph Scheibe criticized aspects of his music as excessively elaborate, arguing that its complexity and ornament obscured natural melody and clear expression. Scheibe also recognized Bach’s exceptional abilities, and Matthew Dirst’s account places the criticism within competing musical ideals, including a growing preference for a simpler style. The disagreement involved deeply held ideas about the kind of experience music should offer.
I find it helpful to imagine a critic listening with an ideal already alive in the mind, a cherished understanding of clarity, expression, or beauty through which each new encounter is received. Such an ideal can sharpen attention and give a response substance, while also influencing which qualities are easiest to hear. Becoming aware of that influence may allow a person to listen with greater curiosity, holding their experience of the work alongside an interest in the choices that brought it into being.
An anonymous reviewer of Beethoven’s String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 130, created a moving example of curiosity accompanying bewilderment. Writing in 1826, the reviewer found the finale, later published separately as the Grosse Fuge, extraordinarily difficult to understand and allowed that future listeners might discover clarity and pleasure within it. The review left room for perception to develop across time, giving a present difficulty an open relationship with future understanding.
I return to that small gesture of openness because it makes a different kind of conversation imaginable. A person can speak clearly about their response while acknowledging that another encounter may reveal something further, or that another listener may approach the work through a different history. I would have welcomed that quality in the conversation with my friend, a willingness to let the music enter the exchange and allow its particular form to become part of what we were discussing.
There is dignity in being asked what one is making, how it came into being, and what the practice means within one’s life. These questions create the possibility of a detailed conversation, including disagreement, because they begin with attention to the person and the work actually present. I can imagine telling my friend about the book, the months of listening, the songs I continue to keep close, and the way movement helps me understand them. Such a conversation would give us something specific to explore together.
Jazz history shows again how judgments about sound can carry much wider concerns about culture and social life. Anne Shaw Faulkner’s 1921 article “Does Jazz Put the Sin in Syncopation?” approached jazz through moral panic.
I respect the devotion involved in learning an instrument, the years of practice through which a musician develops a relationship with sound and with their own capacities. That respect can coexist with curiosity about the many ways people now participate in making music, each involving particular contributions that can be named and examined. A conversation grounded in those particulars gives us a way to honor skill and effort while discovering what is actually taking place in an unfamiliar practice.
Criticism can wound confidence, restrict opportunity, and add strain to a life already carrying financial or personal pressures; encouragement, resources, and attentive companionship can help a person keep working through those conditions. The works that reach us have traveled through such human circumstances, and their survival often carries the quiet labor of people who chose to keep them available.
When I speak of creation as a powerful force, I am expressing my hope in that continuing act of care. I want to give my energy to making, understanding, and preserving what feels meaningful, and to helping create conditions in which another person’s beginning has room to develop. A song can remain present because someone returns to it; a body of work can travel across generations because someone tends to its keeping. The strength I trust becomes visible through these choices.
This also allows me to approach the critic as a person with a relationship to something they value. Criticism may arise from love for an art form, concern for a livelihood, loyalty to a discipline, or a serious objection to harm, and it can carry several of these concerns at once. The way those concerns are expressed matters, because the tone of a conversation becomes part of what another person has to receive. A thoughtful question can invite inquiry even where the disagreement is substantial.
As I consider my friend, I can imagine how changes in music-making might touch a person’s sense of vocation, especially when years of training have shaped both their identity and their means of earning a living. That possibility gives me a way to approach his concern with compassion, while my own experience tells me how deeply his delivery hurt. Both deserve attention within any future conversation, and I can give myself time to understand what a respectful exchange would require.
The pause I feel drawn toward has a purpose within that process. It allows me to return to the music on my own terms, hear what still feels alive in it, and recognize the conditions that help me remain open to creating. It also gives the friendship some space in which a fuller account may eventually become possible. For now, I can care for the place in me that felt wounded and let that care guide the pace of whatever comes next.
The conversation around AI asks for similar attention to the questions being brought together. A recording can be considered through its effect on a listener, through the human and technological contributions involved in its making, and through the conditions under which the technology was developed. Each question opens a particular area of inquiry, and a detailed conversation gives each one enough room to be understood. My spiritual relationship with the practice is another part of that account, carrying meaning within the life from which the work emerges.
An honest description of creation with AI begins with the contributions themselves: the words a person writes, the music they perform or compose, the choices they make in selecting and arranging material, and the elements a system generates. These details help a listener understand how a particular work took form, while also allowing creators to speak accurately about the skills and decisions involved. I want that kind of clarity to accompany my practice as it develops, because care includes a truthful account of how an offering came into being.
The legal discussion also attends to particular contributions. In its January 2025 report the U.S. Copyright Office explained that human authorship can receive protection within works made with AI assistance, while expressive elements determined by a machine are treated separately. It also explained that prompts alone are insufficient to establish the necessary human control over expressive elements. These distinctions address a defined legal question and illustrate the value of examining the creative process in detail.
For me, the account of that process can include both practical specificity and spiritual meaning. I can create a poem, transcribe a dream or meditation, describe the writing, listening, choices, and tools involved while also speaking about my experience and the sense of guidance I bring to the work.
The concerns of working musicians deserve attention. In 2026, the Independent Society of Musicians explained its CLEAR framework through consent, licensing, ethical use, accountability and transparency, and remuneration. These principles give concrete form to questions about creative labor and the conditions under which AI develops, directing attention toward the people whose work contributes to culture and whose choices and livelihoods are affected by technological change.
The future I want to help cultivate includes fair treatment for those people, and this intention asks me to remain curious about the systems supporting the tools I use. Credit, consent, compensation, and clear information about a work’s origins belong within a creative culture shaped by care. As understanding develops, I want these questions to inform the choices available to me, connecting the spiritual values I speak about with the practical relationships through which the work enters the world.
Alongside those questions, I can remain close to the experience that brought me to the music. I remember the ease of certain moments, the tears that arrived while creating, and the sense of discovering something whose meaning would become clearer through repeated listening. These are part of my lived relationship with the work, and describing them helps me understand why the practice matters so deeply to me. The technology participates in the making, while the commitment lives within the attention I bring.
In my spiritual understanding, source is part of the language through which I relate to that attention and to the feeling of receiving something meaningful. I experience the work as an invitation to participate, to give form to what arrives, and then to live with enough curiosity to discover what it may be asking of me. This relationship continues through the days of reflection, through sleep and dreams, and through the moments when movement helps a feeling become recognizable.
I am interested in the possibilities AI opens for people who are searching for a form through which to express an inner experience. A sound they imagine may become something they can hear and consider; words may find a musical setting that invites further exploration; an idea may become available for the kind of attention that helps it develop. In my own life, the opportunity to make music has become a place of discovery, and I want to understand how such opportunities can grow within a culture of responsibility and care.
The emerging creative culture around AI is taking shape through many individual decisions, including the ways people describe their work, credit contributions, support other creators, and respond to difficult questions. Audiences are also participating through what they choose to hear and what they ask to understand. A movement becomes meaningful through these relationships, and its possibilities develop through the practices people choose to sustain around the technology.
The histories I have been reading give me a sense of how much can develop through continued encounter. Paintings and music have gathered new meanings as artists, audiences, and cultural institutions learned to approach them, while each history carries its own conditions and consequences. I can let those stories accompany my inquiry, finding encouragement in the possibility of changing perception and guidance in the care that helps a work continue its life.
That encouragement brings my attention back to the reasons I began. Before the conversation with my friend, there was a blueprint — a book I wrote but did not publish. The world is not ready for it yet. However, the blueprint found its way into the world through my music, opening me to sharing my most inner thought, my growth oath, the world I’m creating through sound. The music encouraged me to create, to build and to become confident, to accept all of the creation that wants to come through me. It has been the foundation of me becoming a founder, musician (yes, I consider myself a musician), and world builder. I have a growing sense that creativity could help me participate in the world I wanted to cultivate. There is joy in the process, including the quiet pleasure of returning to a song and discovering something new to understand. I want to keep that joy available as part of the life around the work.
My company grows within the same inquiry, as I consider how love and creativity might become practical starting points for the design of systems. A structure expresses its values through the experiences it makes possible: how a person is welcomed, how information becomes understandable, how choices are offered, and how care continues when a difficulty arises. I want to bring the attention I practice through art into those decisions, allowing the vision to become visible in the details of ordinary participation.
Universal peace is a vast intention, and the conversation with my friend brings it close enough to touch within a single relationship. I can feel the challenge of caring for my hurt while remaining curious about another person’s experience, and of imagining an exchange in which disagreement is held with respect. The peace I am cultivating has room for honest feeling and for the time a person needs to understand what happened. It can grow through the way I attend to this particular moment.
Boundaries belong within that care, giving me a way to choose the circumstances in which I share work that is still precious and developing. I can offer a song to someone whose listening helps me hear it, ask for reflection on a particular passage, or give a piece another season of private attention. Each choice can respond to the stage of the work and the needs I am learning to recognize in myself, allowing openness to develop at a pace I can inhabit.
The listeners I hope to find may bring a wide range of beliefs and experiences, including perspectives that help me see something new in what I have made. A thoughtful observation about a lyric, a question about the process, or an honest account of how a song feels can become useful material for reflection. What I value is the quality of the encounter, the sense that attention has been offered and that the person speaking is willing to explore it with me.
I want to offer that quality of attention to others as well, especially when someone shares a beginning that is still finding its form. A few careful questions can help a person recognize what they are trying to make, and patient listening can give them room to discover their own language for it. Creative community can grow through such moments, as people learn how to be present with work at different stages of becoming.
For now, some of my songs continue to ask for the privacy in which I can hear them closely. I want to remain curious about what that privacy is doing for the work and for me, noticing when it brings understanding, when it offers rest, and when an encounter with another listener might help something open. This attention allows protection to remain a living practice, responsive to the changing relationship between the work, its maker, and the world it may eventually enter.
Af Klint’s care for her archive resonates with me as I think about that eventual encounter. Making for the future can include preserving a recording, gathering the words that accompanied its creation, and leaving enough context for someone to find a way into it. The notes may also become useful to a future self, carrying details that feel immediate today into a time when I will welcome a path back to the experience. Such practical gestures can become part of the legacy of wonderworld.
The future itself offers many possible outcomes. It may arrive through a change in my own understanding after months of listening, through a friend’s willingness to return to a conversation, or through a listener whose life makes a song suddenly meaningful. Within my beliefs, it also reaches toward another life and another soul mission, where I imagine encountering something I have left with care. These possibilities give the work several horizons, each inviting me to tend to what I can make and preserve today.
This morning, that attention began with tears and with the willingness to notice what was happening in my body. As I thought about integration and allowed the experience to move through language, two poems took form, bringing another possibility into the day. I am letting them remain close while their meanings develop, listening for the song they may become and for whatever understanding they offer in their present shape.
I want to respect the pace at which an experience becomes a knowing. The conversation had ended, and my body continued responding; sleep gave way to a morning in which the feeling asked for further care. The music often teaches me through similar unfolding, as work returns to my attention at different times and reveals another relationship between what I have made and how I am living. There is value in staying with that process long enough to experience it.
Through movement I began to find my way back to creating. Quantum Body Dynamics evolved through pushing boundaries and my edges and contributed to my music. Now it offers a method for returning to creativity when the world around me feels harsh and the critics’ voices grow loud.
If the poems become a song, they will come out in 2027.
My soul songs often predict the future. Thunder Tears on the Balancing Energies album was written months ago at my friend’s house. Now thunder tears were caused by that same friend. It feels surreal and tender.
As I return to the morning, I feel a growing clarity about the kind of care I need around what I am making. I need time with the work and people with whom I can remain in the process of becoming; I need the freedom to explore a meaning before offering it publicly, and the courage to share when an encounter feels ready. These are conditions I can learn to cultivate, allowing the experience with my friend to become part of a larger understanding of how I wish to live and create.
I will keep making work for my future self I can imagine and for the self still taking shape beyond the reach of my present understanding. I will keep returning to the book, the songs, and the questions that become clearer through living with them, allowing curiosity to accompany the spiritual commitment that brought me here. Creating Wonderworld, for me, includes this continuing relationship with mystery and the willingness to discover what the infinite day of attention may reveal.
I woke with tears streaming down my face, and as the morning unfolded, the experience began to find its way into poems. The hurt remained part of what I was feeling, while movement and language gave me a way to care for it and to recognize the creative life continuing within me. I could feel my body responding, hear the first possibilities of a song, and stay close to the work as it became something I was beginning to understand.
