The tap was dripping into a bowl half filled of water.  The 
drops were quick and precise and of equal speed, but their 
pitch varied between an interval of a fourth or even a fifth, 
with an infinitude of subtle tones in between.  My dislike 
of most Western music is of its obsession with sin and false 
optimism, both evident in its predilection for over-wide 
intervals and heavy harmonies.  The subtleties of half- 
quarter- and eighth-tones heard in melodic sequence appeal 
to me greatly and seem to pierce to the very centre of 
existence.  Fascinated, I stood listening to the clean, 
sharp resonance of these waterdrops when an angry femail 
voice from behind me cried, ‘Oh, turn that thap off!  That constant 
dripping will drive me mad!’ 

         I obeyed, but still I stood there, thinking. 

         Later the voice came again.  ‘What are you doing? 
Why do you stand so still?  Answer me!  Are you crazy? 

         Perhaps I looked up rather too slowly, unwilling to 
snap the thread of my meditation. 

         ‘Don’t do it!’  screamed the voice again.  ‘Just don’t 
do it!’