not just Debussy, but Tomita's Debussy, hung me on a tree branch above a neighbour's roof. clouds were busy dusting, and the wind (my favourite of all phenomenon) was scraping off all my human growths (lumps on skin, hair, ineffectual nose).
things happening: Clair de Lune dribbles down eaves, each drop tied to the next by a piano string; a crescent Clair de Lune hooked around the chimney, bleeding white. The stars move in for a closer look, bright hovering bees. Gutters fill, moss flowers in response, the water of Clair de Lune, luminescent, engulfs the house: address numbers slide off, the driveway floats away: magic and cold, the cold licks beds, temperature felt in reverse as the house is made into Mystery.
isn't there a Blake poem where different elements become the senses of the body? Maybe it's one of the Infernal proverbs.