Donax, dont tell

Like the partial vacuum that follows a blast of pressure down an exhaust pipe when the valve of an internal combustion engine snaps shut or the reed of an oboe closes, I find myself at a bit of a loss since last Friday.
I seem emotionally and psychologically depleted.
I've even seem to be sleeping nights.
Something must be done.
Anything.

What good is a nights sleep to an artist?

The whole point to creation is to capture the odd connections and permutations that the subconscious sends us in our dreams.
Most of which are unfathomable.
Almost all of which are unsaleable.
Maybe not all but close enough to all are embarrassing.

Ah, but the pulse will soon reach the end of the tube and a fresh breeze will soon be traveling my way, popping back up to open the valve, to part the Arundonian lips of the reed to reiterate the whole process once again.

Yes, I know reiterate once again is redundant, but, in a greater sense, aren't we all?
In a completely different greater sense, though, the redundancy is purely literary. Reiterations can happen again and again and again.
Four hundred and forty times a second just to get the band tuned up.

Speaking of embarrassment I'm working on a concerto for wooden train whistle and strings right hand (no fingerboard work, just bowing)
The Whistle has four notes at thirds B,D,F,A (treble clef)
The violin has four; G,D,A,E (treble clef)
The Cello has four; C,G,D,A (bass clef)
I've written four "movements" so far, and, guess what?, the whole thing is a bit monotonous.

I erased the first accidentally.

Or was it a "Freudian slip"?