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  • When I made the Music Box I set a song in motion.
    A knothole moon, starfish star, and sand dollar planet.
    Any song you can imagine is being sung,
    The moon is forever rising behind the musician on the edge of the frame.
    Carved from driftwood and a scrap of precious ebony.
    Rough painted burlap and weathered board.

    That was after my season of the comet, and a year on the Island, and the longest spring to ever arrive.
    I found out what I was not made of.

    I go into things thinking that the lesson taken will be the one I choose.
    But in the blind grab bag of life learned there lay many crumbled pieces of paper, and my greedy fingers thought they knew best.
    Do not let your fingers do the walking or the talking.
    That is the job of the heart and the brain,
    That is the realm of the soul.

    The box fell apart, and the pieces are scattered into the oblivion of my creative attic.
    All that remains is this fragmented photograph,
    But I still hear the song of my dreams.
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