The dark haired violinist's arms. The clarinetist's lips. The young conductor's smiles during restrained interludes. And my morning is almost done. The third violinist seems to be gossiping with her eyes. Is she jealous of the pianist, who owns this piece, beautiful in her gloom? The distracted lunch on the piazza. Practicing, she never came out of her room. The grand piano in front of the stage partially hides the faces of the woodwind section, female, satin, and wan. Mozart, in all three movements, playing jokes we get, but in tears. We cannot unhear Mozart's C minor concerto any more than we can unhear the Communist Manifesto. Music traveled so far from Bach to Beethoven, the duke gave up drinking. Pop musicians take note. Even the ukulele has turned a new page and is on the wagon. Communism, that false flag, connected to thugs, a needless elaboration on the American revolution. We had a voice. The one percent will destroy us yet. What do you expect the world to be? Why am I paying this tax? Who is telling me I have bad thoughts? Who are these people? Who, Mozart, who?