The invisible flute player wakes up every night to play his primitive, soul-searching music into the crisp dark air. On a quiet night, if one stands on the terrace with only the sighing of the eucalyptus trees to keep him company in the milky light of the moon, he can hear soft, untamed notes being carved out of a soft piece of wood placed on airy lips. They waft in the breeze without a care in the world. They drip down the sleepy trees of the grove, turn to smoke against a dying chimney, dissolve into the glassy dew and trickle down my neck in strings of bead-like notes.

The invisible player does not see me and I don't know where the notes come from. But he plays with his heart and he plays the strings of his soul. And I listen to some of it, somewhere deep in the night.
When finally sweet sleep descends on my tired mind, I carry down a bit of a mysterious music from a soul I can't see. From a soul who is dreaming of things I'll never know.
And it shall be that way.