I woke early. I could hear the wolves in the distance, and the restless shifting of trees in the wind. The blood moon lowered its bloated self to the horizon, heavy with judgement, heavy with sorrow.
I heard my name. It was a familiar voice, calling from the unknown. Distant. Strange.
"Yes?" I whispered through the open window and out to the mad wonders beyond.
"Gabriel!" it came again, a silver bell tolling doom. "Gabriel! You must write!"
"What must I write?"
For a moment there was silence. Or was it an hour? How time stretches in fear's cold hands!
"Write, like, kind of classical music. But not exactly classical. I don't want Mozart here. Don't worry about the cadence and such, but maybe use some sequence. Repeat some themes and revisit them in different contexts and different voicings. Pursue beauty but remember you're not Beethoven. You're not Beethoven, Gabriel. Don't even try."
"Uh... okay. What do I call this strange and hapless music, o mysterious one? What name for this dark quest?"
So no, I don't know what this music is, exactly. I don't know why it is. I just know that I labour ceaselessly through the night, forsaking much sleep and social comfort. I toil and toil at this thing, this thing that has found no perfection, only a name. Neo-Baroque.