The solitude is overbearing for the boy, and he fears he will never escape its grasp, comparing it to the hand of death. Friendship and companionship have always eluded him, although he desires it with all of his heart. He listens by the window, with his head tilted obtusely, and his right ear pushed against the mesh screen. He hears the birds chirping in chorus proclaiming the morning sun. They sing in harmony, taunting the boy of their everlasting metaphysical relationship.
He wishes God would bless him with greatness, like Mozart – the prodigal boy genius infinitely talented in composition. The boy remembers how Mozart once remarked, and he knows this because he is a fervent studier of his biography, that true genius stems from the visceral senses – the eyes and ears – and not in the mind which acts rationally, inhibiting risk-taking and inventiveness. The boy believes this to be the eternal dichotomy, and wonders how his analytical nature has hindered in reaching his life-long aspirations. Instead he compares himself to the Classical-Romantic composer Ludwig van Beethoven in toiling, brooding and revising - perpetually unsatisfied.
He has limited hope for his future – in all aspects of work, health and companionship. He knows he will not be remembered until the end of time like the artists he so greatly admires and aspires to. He is alive now and will be so for an insignificant future time, before turning to dust.
