Nobody in the audience would have noticed the passage if it had gone well. Seven seconds buried in the middle of a serious piece. Yet for Jimmy it was a private mountain. Every rehearsal ended with the same promise. I might get it tomorrow. But the next day, somewhere after the fourth measure, confidence gave way to hesitation, hesitation to correction, correction to collapse. It was like practising disappointment instead of perfection. Still, he returned to the hope that his hands might finally become the person he believed them to be. Mindfuckery.