It was Brinkerhoff's idea that Chopin, Copland, Debussy, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, and Satie could make up for the world, maybe even for weather. That a sunset had more to say than a simple sun in a supple sky.

From the Commentary:
 
I don't know what you'd call me. I'm a fan. I'm a maniac. I'm on the run. I'm responsible for this mess. I recorded it anyhow. I packed the trivia on which my life depends, for example toothpaste, into a stuff sack, and made my way across continents, braving airport riots, flaming taxis, nonexistent flights, criminal police, and in the end my own increasing doubt, to face at last on a strange slab of mud and stone (where nothing I had become over thirty-odd years meant anything to the hard-eyed porters who seemed waiting for me to look the wrong way) my own menacing nemesis, and maybe my enemy, as well as my one last chance at immortality in a Swiss Miss mist mad monastery.