I went swimming at the new glossy pool of which Voghera is proud. As I was moping at the water's edge reflecting in terms of tears and considering this scarily banal vicinity and how love can awe the vocal cords and cause desire to die, as I moped, suddenly a loudspeaker, silent until now, beaming on our drops, without preliminary introduction began to emit the quieter piano music of Satie. Of all things! all times! places! All the music of my babyhood and I was overcome. What's more, the pianist turned out to be Poulenc, Poulenc's recorded fingers trickling out onto the ugly piscine of a town he's never heard of, while he himself lies delirious in Lausanne. << less