The clock struck three in the somber night as the four of us journeyed towards our grand performance. In music, the space between the beats is important. Life, too, unfolds in these spaces.

The relentless snowfall painted a thick veil of white upon the perilous black ice of the mountain highway. Our windshield wipers battled valiantly, their efforts hardly enough to reveal the treacherous path that lay ahead or the abyss of the valley beside. Shrouded by dense fog, in the bitter cold, we pressed on.

Then, in an instant, a booming thud resounded through the night air. Jerome, the valiant helmsman of our carriage, grappled with the wheel as it bucked and fishtailed violently along the icy road. In the back seat, I quickly accepted the fate that seemed imminent, a fate of being reduced to nothing but a mangled mess upon the desolate highway. Next to me, Keefer raised his arms and opened his mouth in dramatic slow motion.

But, onward we pressed, albeit amidst chaos.

“By the stars, thou hast done well, my friend!” I extolled Jerome for his admirable navigation.

“I aimed for the smallest of them,” he replied earnestly. “Three creatures there were, but alas, they appeared before I could discern their presence.”

“Aye, indeed,” added Thud Pumpkin. “Fortunate it was a deer and not a towering moose, for with their long limbs, they could thrust through the very windshield.”

Nonetheless, a hundred leagues still lay between us and the next village, and our headlights had relinquished their radiance to darkness. We found ourselves bereft of warmth, frequently halting in the middle of the highway to replenish the radiator now adorned with six antler holes, spewing the lifeblood of antifreeze. With steady perseverance, we inched closer to the next haven, repairing the beleaguered radiator upon our arrival. The culmination of our efforts allowed us to grace the stage precisely as the hour struck for the grand performance.

The evening greeted us with a throng that stretched for blocks, and the elixir of tequila flowed generously, akin to the flowing streams of Dionysian revelry. From the stage, we beheld the fervent punk maidens, their spirits alight with vivacious dance. As the night unfolded, Keefer and I ventured into the chamber of reflection, where a pair of shoes betrayed their presence beneath a cubicle. Curiosity beguiled Keefer, compelling him to peer over the cubicle, revealing a familiar fan. His unbuttoned sleeve, rolled past his elbow, bore witness to a needle embedded below a small tattoo of a heart with chains.

“Dude, dost it prove effective for thee?” Keefer inquired.

He seemed unaware of Keefer’s intrusion, but Keefer persisted, “Pray tell, does it avail thee, my friend?”

In that moment, I felt a gentle tap upon my shoulder. A fervent punk maiden appeared before me.

“Would you not desire to embrace me passionately?” she questioned with fervor.

“What might you offer in return?” I inquired with a measure of nonchalance.

“I knew it,” she exclaimed in excitement.

With that, we departed from the jubilant assembly and made our way back to the sanctuary of the hotel. The curtains had fallen upon the grand spectacle, and now it was time to embrace the space between the beats.

Here I am, a musician in the shadows.
In these shadows is my refuge—the stage for my final performance.
Here, away from the spotlight, I find introspection and wonder.

I once immersed myself in illusions.
But no longer.
I was assertive, and took pleasure in being so.
I did not compromise my principles,
and found satisfaction in that, at least.
When young musicians sought guidance from the stage I stood upon,
I felt a strange kind of accomplishment.

But do you know the pivotal essence of my journey?

It was the revelation that—
even in uncertainty—
I was hopeful.

And so, with resolve, I continued.
The road stretched before me, winding through the familiar and the unknown.
I met fellow musicians along the way—
seekers like me, in search of their own voices.
When our paths crossed, we shared stories
of songs and saviors.
Music, always, my guide.
I found joy in these moments.

For music offers redemption.
Each verse, a kind of divine guidance—
whispers from the loving hearts of ghosts.

I believe God judges everyone fairly in the end.
And it is important to ask for forgiveness—
lest we find ourselves facing the Conductor
when the divine symphony begins.

Each morning, before the sun takes full command of the sky, he sings.
The butcherbird.

Not for mates, not for territory, not for any reason nature would approve—
but for the joy of it.
The danger of it.
The mystery of it.

There is a note he favors. A single note.
Or so it seems.
Depending on how you arrive at it—on your posture, your purpose, your faith—
it can sound like salvation—or unrest.
The tritone.

To the medieval ear, it was corruption incarnate.
A sacred shape bent into disfigurement.
Something perfect gone wrong.
They called it Diabolus in Musica.
The Devil in Music.

But the butcherbird sings it like it belongs.
Casually. Joyfully. Without apology.
He does not fear the Devil’s interval. He embodies it.
Where humans once tiptoed around the tritone in candlelit choirs,
the butcherbird whistles it to the sun.
Not hidden.
Not ashamed.
Declared.

He has no theory, no name for it.
And yet his song speaks truths many composers fear to write.

Because the butcherbird knows what we try to forget:
That conflict creates.
That dissonance gives shape to resolution.
That beauty without struggle is just decoration.

He sings the sharp 4 with optimism—
stretching upward toward the unknown.
He dives into the flat 5 with menace—
taunting the limits of order.
The same pitch. One holy. One profane.
One note, split by intention.

The butcherbird doesn’t choose sides.
He sings them both.
And in doing so, he reveals the lie we cling to:
that harmony is peace.
It isn’t.
Harmony is earned—through tension, through contradiction, through almost breaking.

The Devil—tired, elegant, amused—once claimed the tritone as his signature.
But the butcherbird used it first.
And he never needed to summon demons.
Only morning.
Only sky.

The butcherbird already knew
that “not yet” is sometimes more powerful than “forever.”

And so, long before Sabbath tuned to darkness,
a lone bird carved a space in the silence.
A song that hovered—not here, not there.

A song between.

Between heaven
and the place where angels won’t sing.

So listen, if you dare.
Not to summon the Devil—he’s been busy anyway.
But to confess that you, too, have been divided.
You, too, have heard the butcherbird’s song and felt something stir.

To explore one’s own consciousness, to wrestle with angels and demons alike, and to emerge, bruised but enlightened. In the act of creation, we confront the duality of our nature—God and the animal, the sublime and the base. We grapple with our contradictions, our sins, and our virtues, all in the pursuit of truth—a truth that is not imposed, but discovered.

Yet, in a world so often governed by pragmatism, the creative act is defiant and resists the pressure to conform. To embrace it fully is to reject the forces that would have us march in lockstep, devoid of individuality and imagination.

The artist knows the cost of this path. They are often misunderstood, dismissed as dreamers, their motives questioned, their sanity doubted. And yet, they persist—for what is a man without his dreams, without the ability to express the inexpressible, to give form to the formless?

The creative force is relentless. The artist continues their work, not for glory, but for the love of God. In the act of creation itself, they find their purpose, their reason for being, and their ultimate salvation.