It's the horse.  The propulsion and movement, full force behind the beast that drives you, the soul covered by all the veins, and skin and warts and boils.  Fingernails, and toes, arches and vertebrae.  It's all the part, waving from the bomb, as the frame changes and the bay opens... They ride it to the bottom, through the black and white image, through the humor and script, awards and passed on dvds.

It's the elephant, or chariot, or song that hums, gently through the speakers and bounces off your walls.

Harpsichord improvisation -solo to coda...