Upon Seeing "August Rush."

When the creative passion manifests itself within a human child in so great a magnitude that the child is compelled to create, and when that compulsion is made known through the power of creative genius, we call it beautiful, touching, profound.

I am pained, in agony. For what is crueler than to encase that immense passion within the flesh and psyche of a man and provide him with no prodigy-like form through which to have expression?

I am an artist without a canvas, a singer with no voice and a master with no craft. I meander about the art of creating and dabble in the alchemy of beauty, yet my very soul aches still with a song to be sung that cannot find a note of harmony in this un-tuned voice.

In anger and tears I cry, "There is something that big in me and I have no craft to get it out!" How cruel.