Were music to ever not be ridiculous and disposable, we should have to make it so to save us some work in disposing of it.

Reliability remains today so unreliable, as if relying on something is even itself subject to circumstance. "I can rely on him" spits out the word "rely" as something redoubtably foreign as opposed to "I can"'s and "him"'s natural bases in verifiable experience.

If I were Wittgenstein, I would have zombied up out of the ground in 1977, when G.H. von Wright was about to publish Vermischte Bemerkungen, and snatched the manuscript right out of his hands, croaking (can zombies croak?) "Miscellany is meant to stay miscellaneous!", and scattering all the pages everywhere.
(But this would be terribly avoidable, seeing as a virus of sufficient strength to awaken the corpse didn't exist in that year exactly.)
But I'm not Wittgenstein, seeing as I speak barely more than a basic snatch of German, and am not a great philosopher, though I should certainly have a "sense of purpose" to be him. Enough to capitalize on all of it? For purposes of very foolish imitation and mockery?

Almost like senses of purpose can utterly replace all other senses, like of smell. Zombies might smell very unpleasant, and be rudely snatching and scattering pages always.

One of Mendelssohn's 1837 piano concertos (2 in d Op. 40) has always struck me as one of his finest.