Each hour that had past since the moment he had woken up that morning, each minute, and now, each second pounding metronomic for the start of this new symphony.
All day, every minute he spent alone with his thoughts, he grappled with the battle of this moment. Today, this morning, some time last night when he was dreaming? In that moment, when ever it was, had he ceased to exist? Or did he just then at that moment start to exist?
But in this moment, he realized, the war over his identity was already fought. And he could try to re-fight it.
Or write its victory.
He just needed to let the music play.
"There was so much more I wanted to say to you," he said, accepting what was. "So much I wanted to do. I didn't know what to do."