Matters of taste certainly are vexing when one is forced to endure the debased taste of others, who claim higher authority on matters which stir ones subjective creativity. Someone who claims such a salient title is much like the man who pours oil into lanterns but fails, constantly, to light it – thus he misses the entire point of such an endeavour. The sound of a snapped matchstick follows his footsteps, as he empties boxes in a failed attempt to put wood to flame. Music matters no more than other ART. Tears can be raised from frozen veins to leak down the wooden cheeks of any beast, with the right chords of Bach, Rachmaninov, or Metallica. The heart itself is unseen and thus subjected to an onslaught of prerequisite knowledge which are jumbled keys in a pot, poured over ones head after facing a locked door. It will click, it will turn and suddenly the light of beauty will wash over. There is no requirement to unlock the door, only that the chord and the key are found, that the mind is willing and all claims to “knowledge of beauty” be positioned alongside astrology, alchemy and other quackery.