I harp persistently in my past success to decrescendo the discordant pangs of my ritornello failures. I hearse and re-rehearse these dead notes held in immortal captivity on manuscripts made of pitted lies; the flattened pulp of grandiose recollections. But when this symphony is no longer sympathetic, I will tune into my divine muse and pen coded codas anew. And Bach, and Brahms, and Beethoven I will be. Ode to my new-found Joy.