Canons the unsaid touchstone here: remixed, crisscrossed, shattered but lived with. Tradition is not written against but through. In this way is this book both elegy and praise. A metronome keeps tick, tick, ticking but to an empty house. The old music is sung again, but in the process gets rewritten. Im reminded of porcelain and paste, ritual and rebelliousness. After the fold of the father, there is the daughter.