I stood on top of a scene. From the staccato report of clinking glasses, the stool's weary creak, the tiresome whir of overhead fans, a melody emerged bearing more meaning, more importance than the vacuous symbols issued from its players. A composer before noise, an artist before lines, a god-man before death, I claimed meaning where there once was none, and there was meaning irregardless. I stood before and held the present, then slipped, and I was, again, a noise among many.