I ask the driver what kind of music he likes. Says he grew up listening to classical music. Play some, I say, not asking please. He pushes a button on the radio and ushers in a deep mournful Bach cello solo into the car. We head into New York, the buildings bright against the clear dark March sky, then into the Holland Tunnel, the cello pushing faster, climbing scales through rising static, the composer and artist pining for lost loves as we are delivered to humanity.

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