Walking down University. Looking for the music, catching it in your ears when your head is tilted just so. Not constructing– not walking, ‘magic-making’, not trying to find (not: “life is beautiful, I find beauty in the oddest things”) but the sounds building together, an accident, coming in such a way that you think you heard what you didn’t, what you piece together later as you look around. The loud bleat of a saxophone, first note, coming from an affronted car. Soft squeals, the tires on a certain polished spot on the road, the assent. Flags clacking against their poles, in the wind, the rhythm that you heard.