Anna never started off “writing” a song…she would play, and let it take her where it did. She would make notes, she would play repeatedly, slowly, every note touching her and judging each as just right/or not. These were the only two categories because all must eventually become the first, and she was in no hurry to do so.
And after playing it MANY, MANY times, she would take permanent “notes”…but these wouldn’t have (musical) notes in them, they would consist of indications, moods, instructions, echoes, pieces of her soul and herself. This would grow and be unreadable as music, silly and useless to anyone else. Scribblings. But that wouldn’t matter, because it didn’t have to mean anything to anyone else, ever.
All it ever had to do was mean something to her. To be a piece of her husband, of herself, of the spirit and love that connected the two and always would, of that which she could not and would not ever want to define – beyond and above words, more than a definition.
And every aspect, every hint of every piece of music she played and felt, in this way, was beyond description, a version in beauty of Cane/Cthulhu’s indescribable horror…things that exist that can not be adequately described, for the words do not exist. Beyond, above, past them. More than them.
Only in her music, it was love and devotion, not horror and insanity. And in this she was shrouded forever; comfortable and happy, content, in any circumstance…untouchable to the minor annoyances of the world outside of this place of magic. And in this haven, how could she possibly be sad?
Semper Fidelis.