in certain modes and melodies, the keys of a piano cause hearts to stop beating, or perhaps to start beating again. At such moments, the idea of a “piano player” is unimaginable. Nobody is “playing” the instrument at that moment; the instrument itself is reaching out in longing to everyone it can imagine, to every hand it has ever felt on its ivory skin.
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When objects come to life, when life itself is seen through objects, the world of feelings is paradoxically intensified, rather than diminished.
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The feelings of such temporarily animated objects inevitably shatter sunlight, rainwater, and whispers alike into shards of memory and selfhood.
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On the last day of the world there will be nothing left to do but remember.