Perchance amid the manifold impossibilities of fate and circumstance, lost and with nothing solid to lean upon in our world of intangible diaphanous certainties, we prop each other up—we scrape each other off the sidewalks upon which we fall; and, arms locked together, carry our own withering bodies into heaven—or, at the very least, lay us down to die elsewhere than blistering pavement, alone.

And in that scraping, in that skyward gathering of bodies toward our collective ascension, kin and kind, might well be said to reside the means of embrace.

I certainly do not claim to know what a hug does or should sound like when rendered by an orchestra—not that any one rendering ought to be privileged as correct—yet somehow, a big, warm, C major chord out of nowhere seems to me to be a decent, if ultimately incomplete, representation. In that case, this piece contains three.