A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, 
which was polished until it became music. Then the music was 
polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when 
tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was 
polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty 
home of a heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the 
music came back and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at 
the edge of the city, a long line of clouds appeared, and there was 
thunder, which, however menacing, would become music, and the 
memory of what happened after Venice would begin, and what 
happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would 
also begin.