propagation

The sounds of music here and now disappear, neither records nor transcripts made,
fingers suffer the string’s stings,
guitar sings.
It is good, Like Totally thinks.
I don't know what I am doing, musician concedes.
It’s so beautiful, Like Totally repeats.
He slows down to demonstrate the work of his fingers.
Like Totally nods but has no clue, for music making is a mystery to her.
She paints in the concert with it; her painting, unlike music itself, stays.
What happens in the Cave stays in the Cave, Like Totally likes to think.
Technically, they can go out into the streets and become a part of a cityscape,
find an escape there: play and paint.
To become a part of their landscape one has to be a landscape, Like Totally sighs,
To dwell in their memory one has to be a memory dweller.
The music sprouting out of your head shoots roots into mine,
she elaborates turning her head towards the musician's,
it may propagate, you know…