I'm listening to Mr. Sakamoto's music.

He uses his voice to heal the paleness and wounds of his soul.

I could hear the silvery moonlight in the valley and the little thatched hut in his music.

Clear water bubbled across the keyboard.

The audience applauded one after another, and the applause was like a tidal wave.

I couldn't help but applaud, even though he wouldn't have heard it at all.

But all things, heard.