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.
When objects come to life, when life itself is seen through objects, the world of feelings is paradoxically intensified, rather than diminished.
The feelings of such temporarily animated objects inevitably shatter sunlight, rainwater, and whispers alike into shards of memory and selfhood.
On the last day of the world there will be nothing left to do but remember.