It must be the music, shaping my soul like the river carves the canyon. The melody to bait my passion, drawing out longing and desire, stoking my hidden fires until my surface warms and flickers. The harmony to obscure the two-dimensionality of fervor, to breathe life into monosyllables, to calm the scattered remnant of my rational mind. The chord progressions an all-to-literal analogy for the cycles of my error; there is no progress, only repetition, for I find myself willing to face old ...