was he in love when he wrote his seventh? perhaps he was. perhaps he found his reason of being in the theme that carries ever so gently on the flute, as the softness of the strings cocoons the fragile formation, allowing it to feed, grow, in kindness, in serenity. aha! such is the mellifluous nature of what that is truthfully joyous – carefree, leaping, skipping, gentle hand in gentle hand, skin against skin, laughter in the embrace of sprightly winds as they carry this tune and echo it across the vast universe, stardusts rejoicing in its warmth. aha! such is spring, such is adventure! such is the seventh, of which he was, indeed, in love when he wrote it, in a celebration of rightfully being, in place, in mind, in soul, in sound, in silence, falling like inked notes on the sheets of his music, dancing, soaring, in love with all that life has to offer, in love with the brilliance of permutations and combinations of every possibility of every occurrence in this universe, in love with the simple fact that he is and he can be if he chooses to be because he is and he can be, in love.