Today I may play my trumpet. Sometimes I feel bad for owning like a ripped-out chunk of the planet, heated and smashed and stretched and alloyed with other chunks and molded and wrought and finished, and having undergone this torture to take on a silly-looking shape made for the sole purpose of creating a range of sounds as ephemeral as thoughts just to glorify kings or whatever, and remains a vibrant mechanism for much jackanapery in human activity.
Another way of looking at it is that I am in possession of something on the order of a physical miracle, a triumph of ludic engineering, life-ages of the Earth in the making, containing infinite potential, by and for the grace of God.
Guess it's appropriate enough to keep hold of both, and blow some of my vox through it from time to time, and let it be apologia and hymn in one.
--JL
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