Symphonies all worship the languid chants of gardens.
I’m not sure where these words came from. If I had to assign a meaning to them it would be something like —
We work so hard to be excellent at what nature can do without a thought.
We are also nature, so it must follow that we can create magnificent works of beauty if we settle into our own true nature.
If we did settle into our true nature though, we’d have to accept imperfection as perfection and that would be awfully painful to do.
Perhaps it’s easier to just keep on scrambling after the illusion after all.