* Max Richter depicts vividly the swirl of memory. Memory delineates itself around the arch of a moribund tree. The tree, like every other, blossoms punctually every spring before the beckonings from the balmy wind. And now it stands bowing to its fate, the glaring manifestation of its frosted branches. One tries hopelessly to resurrect its lushness, for even a sight of a bud can set the heart to tremor. But only a barren trunk is before him, solely and merely. Memory, instead, chooses to journey with the river. It meanders diligently without having the knowledge of where it starts, or its destination. Cobblestones are deliberately placed to staunch the flow. The fail attempt only rashes the river, and creates bushes of overwhelmingly beautiful ripples. The river-water with memory a puckish boy pours into his shell-shaped box. Wobbling the box before his ears a tedious symphony of love and tears is heard. He brings himself and the box to the river again next day. Sail, sail, let it sai