A style lives from the same things as play does, from rhythm, harmony, regular change and repetition, stress and cadence.*
Most people are products of their time. Only the rare few are its creators.**
Sometimes I find myself wondering about all the things that do not exist because we cannot yet imagine them. And yet they are there, lying dormant within millions upon millions of lives, like seeds in the ground, waiting to spring forth, some to try and fail, others to grow into something quite exceptional.
Some playful focus of exploration and experimentation will find our concentrated lives:
‘One cannot learn to concentrate without becoming sensitive to oneself.‘^