This realization did not depress him, oddly it was relief. For decades he carried the burden of defending an imaginary permanent self while simultaneously trying to create permanent significance through an art form made entirely of disappearance. Neither occupied space in the way stones occupy space. One evening after a concert a listener approached, “Your music felt very real.” Richard smiled at the compliment while privately suspecting that the most real things in life might be precisely those that never become objects at all. They arise, transform, and disappear, leaving behind the mystery that they were ever here.