When I'm old,  I'd much rather walk through the streets of a city hand in hand and comment
"look at these idiots"
than wade through a hinterland and continually concoct various ways in which to describe
the various beauties and cleanliness of the hills, streams, and sheep fields.

Halfway through, I realized that Leonskaja was not reading music.

The lake, on this summer day, he equates to a steaming broth.  He's afloat; but this morning offers no indication of direction anywhere.

He's unnamed and he wakes to silence, blindness; and stillwater.