Sometimes you hate them all.  You hate everything.  You try to convince yourself that it is fine to feel that way sometimes when the preferred default is greatest of these is love.  Greater than great.  Love so deep and sharp it's self-destructive.  We try to merge these minds with botched recipes for dopamine and serotonin, a pinch of this and slab of here and there. Instructors say it comes naturally as you get older. The recitals get easier, records break, you throw them away and borrow or buy better ones, and you don't need to hold on to the old pieces. You don't need to hold on to the old, you don't need to hold on, unless you have rigor mortis for more than four or 40 years. Then call an ambulance.  Or a hurst.