Writers often turn to music for inspiration. From it they can conceive very lyrical or complex works. But this is the first time when I feel that I cannot at all claim to have truly created any of this work. How much of the text is mine, how much the music’s?
At best, I can perhaps only be the equivalent of the interpretive artist who receives the work beautifully conceived from the composer and simply plays it. If I did not have that image to save me, I would feel that I was merely a thief. And perhaps I am.