Music is a futile endeavor. The pursuit of perfection is a never-ending cycle of disappointment.
The notes, like sand, slip through the fingers of the composer, artist, and listener alike.
Yet, still we toil, driven by the Sisyphean hope that our creations will somehow, someway, make a difference.
Perhaps, in the grand tapestry of human existence, music is merely a distraction from the void.
Or maybe, just maybe, our art will be the very thing that fills the void, and in that fleeting moment, we are all saved.