I have indulged a deliriously sweet tooth of late and in recognition of this I took a tight, compacted shit this morning, and such was the effort, it arrived with a something of a sheen. I cannot blame Stockhausen. In truth, the piano of Klaiverstucke, rather than expressing a soul, seems to describe the outline of a soul, and is almost doubly moving for doing so. Yet this morning, as I strained, the Stockhausen sounded like an assault and it wasn't until flushing the toilet, then checking my hair, that I felt certain I wasn't about to break down.