The mind of the merchant ... the mind of the music.
There merchant mind is always looking to trade up. It is the quid-pro-quo mind, the good-deal mind: A newer car, a good marriage, an enlightenment that will eradicate delusion. The merchant mind dickers and is alternatively proud and ashamed of its efforts, holy and damned by turns. The merchant mind has shiny buttons which it polishes relentlessly.
The mind of music has no purchase points and no pay-off. It floats without companions and can't stop smiling, though its fierceness is as steady as the eye of a hawk. Attainment is out of the question and for this reason, tentatively, it is a terrific relief.
Yet even relief cannot tempt its joys. This is music, after all, and not some stupid jewel.
Who but a merchant could escape the music, laying on a bartering mind with words like "this moment" or "beautiful" or "love?" The music does not demur: It is neither escapable nor inescapable ... it's just music, for heaven's sake!
Show me the time or place with or without music.
Anyone who ever tried to trade up to music knows the problem that does not exist.