The composer is dead

I had a nightmare. Something about faces and suspicious beings.

I remember trying to call out your name, and that time when I was having a nightmare in your apartment and how when I could finally shout out your name I woke up and found you there in my arms.

I thought about you, and how you would know what to say.

I need you.

But you don't need me.

I can't.

You are manifested in so many symbols, and your meaning is everywhere to me. But you are nowhere to be found, even when you are sleeping in my arms.

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The funeral is in 7 hours. I still can't grasp the concept of death. The idea that someone I knew for so long simply just disappeared -- well, I can't understand that. I've known plenty of people who have died, and yet death has not happened to me, in the sense that I am 21 years old and still can't acknowledge the magnitude of its meaning.

Robert Ian Winstin, teacher, composer, conductor, and friend. You will be missed, but your legacy lives on.