At one time, I had a beard as long as a beard of bees. Speaking of which, even my bees had beards (I was an old-fashioned apiarist and my colonies were all mature). I played my guitar for them. I also played my guitar for the flowers in the field, the stars in the night, the leaves on the trees, the winds in the air, the clouds in the sky, the gnats in the firmament, the worms in the dirt, the cows in the barn, the pigs in the pen, the utensils in the drawers, the phlogiston in the vapors, the mutton in the sheep, the dye in the tie, the cream in the coffee, the thing in the thing-in-itself and many other things as well. Looping tunes. Spindly little ragas. Just—as in “right,”—ornaments for every time of the day.