Now he’s getting old he wants Bach. A balloon flies over the farm and he knows this is Bach anticipating the enlightenment. He pulls a blue corn flower. (Alright, alright, it’s me getting old.) I kick a clod of earth and talk to myself. Poor Bach. He had to dine with Frederick the Great who made fun of him. “How it is,” I think, bending to pick yet another blazing flower which one supposes is a thing that cannot be done in heaven.
“Come in Bach, over. Tell me of the galant flourishes as we leave this life? Over.”
Planet of the Blind 