Some staccato coughs inhabit the space. The string section easily tunes itself briefly. The piece begins again. A lone flute calls and the rest of the orchestra responds with all of its glory. A solo lead violin begins its lament. Other sections support its refrain with a low powerful grumble. There is no dark intent. It is a poem of love a melody unworn by time. Fresh in its execution. Now the wind approaches bringing the piece a cohesive, robust joyous call. Somewhere, your knowledge limited,

you recognise it. You must have heard another piece by the same composer on an ad somewhere. You can’t quite recall it. Stop. Scratch head. Nothing. The music continues. The pen sits idly waiting. You wonder what is on TV. Check your inbox. Look at Facebook. Buy something you must have but don’t need.