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He picked up the box, and found a few notes still in the bottom that hadn't come loose as yet. Strange. Some of them looked quite familiar. That one there, trying to hide under the flap, that one was left over from something in the twenties, he was quite sure of that, while this pretty little one over here, it was from Sacre. Could this cache be where all the left-over and unused notes from all his prior compositions had ended up? And now they wanted their freedom?

He turned back to the manuscript sheets on the floor, and carefully picked them up. It was difficult to discern if there was a pattern to them, or in what order the pages should be placed, but that could come later. For now, though, with a smile on his face, he thought the papers very much resembled paintings as done by the American painter Jackson Pollock. That inventive master had created his own method of spatter painting, in which he drizzled varying colors of paint on the canvas and let it flow as it would, or stay put, whichever. Some of his paintings looked as though he'd actually shook the brush at a canvas, flinging dots of paint here and there. They weren't at all unattractive, just different. Somewhat like his own music, for instance.

The elderly composer laughed. Perhaps he would create yet another new method of musical composition. But wait! Another idea popped into his ever-fertile mind. He remembered having seen a child's book at the store the other day. What had it been called? Oh, yes. Connect-the-dots. The very thing.

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