Daylight savings invokes a dab of circadian misalignment. Thus unkiltered this fine afternoon, I assumed a prone guitar strumming posture minutes before my sandman's succumb. Waking-but-not-awake six-string-belly-plucking hazily resumed soon thereafter, my critical capacity adrift, I relished fresh the intervals I've heard so many times before. Major third, minor third, major second. And fretless, so permutations as well, but then it all became permutations, all of it unmoored and undifferentiated, holding no weight of history, mine or the world's, just sounds sounds sounds. Ahh...until...some- but not much- analytical attention came online, enough to say oh no! You're not in tune (with history, yours or ours) (with yourself) (with maths) (with convention)! And more: You'll never be in tune ever again! Then, cue the thundersheet, a hemispheric minibrainbattle to retake pitch authority! But "I" couldn't quite muster the ability to discriminate between the diads in the air released at my fingers' behest. These musical assemblies, the whole lot of them, separate from their names, just vibrational occurrence in succession juxtaposed against other nameless waveshapes. For a few moments, the happenstance about which I've given great consideration (a sonic landscape minus subjectivity) was experiential reality. Despite enculturational superimposition it's been there all along, and I'm grateful for this especially unguarded interface. I'll remember it next time the urge to nudge a D chord to presentation-grade intonation arises. It's okay to let sine waves beat, to let the particulars be.