So I'm listening to Mozart and his songs-with-fancy-names, and watching violin bows swoop across the strings in rehearsed, practiced perfection. In my head, there is another song, of far less significance than Mozart-with-a-capital-M. But its in my head. That must mean something.

The stars spoke to me last night. They said they wouldn't tell anyone my name. They said they would sail me to the moon. They told me that this was better than any movie I had ever seen. I wouldn't go back empty. They showed me the city sky that reflected the silver street below. They looked so good it hurt sometimes.

And just when we spoke of symphony number 40 and what we were missing, the stars showed me that the night was well worth all effort, with their own little symphony of sorts. I watched the lights light up my skin, and I watched the lights change colour and shape and form and rhythm.
After a while I stopped thinking about it in terms of words, and just felt it rush through me.

There is something about nights like these that make you see the bigger scheme of things. Great lights, great music, and more importantly, great company. But its also about rhythm, and when you skip a beat by mistake. Its about looking for the right note, and hitting it. Its about finding metaphors without words. Its about finding words, without cliches.

At the end of it, you realise that with symphonies like this, you don't need to know when to applaud. You have nothing to prove to anyone. Our stars know what we're thinking. As do our angels.