There is music that has surface. 
Music with color, texture, fuzz, grit. 
Music that rubs off on the ears like rust on the fingers. 
Music that stains.

There is music that is delicate. 
Music that is fragile, small, and hidden. 
Music that slithers away in a blink.

There is music full of motion. 
Music that folds and unfolds, music with gears, cogs, action. 
Music with time.

There is music that leaves behind silence, 
making the ear strain to distinguish 
what might still be music from others sounds that fill a room.

There is music that has depth. 
Music that must be searched, explored, examined. 
Music with dark corners and damp undergrowth. 
Music with an inside.

There is music that occupies space. 
Music that crowds corners and piles up on the floor; 
that scrapes across the ceiling or pushes against the walls. 
Music that is contained by the room and becomes the room.

There is music that must be faced. 
Music that demands love, hate, awe, jealousy. 
Music that changes, intensifies, surrounds.

This is the music we need to write about.