We can only clean the flute, care for it and prepare, and then wait. You, master flutist, may not come, yet, we begin and prepare and wait again and again. Perhaps you will come in an hour, a week, a year, or perhaps never. But what right have we but to prepare and wait. You have left us with little choice, other than to be a servant or slave. We strive to master the world only to surrender to a life of waiting for your breath.