piano

The piano, as subtle as it can be if necessary, suggesting - as if playing along those rolling hills - that we relax and my elbows make a final movement and collapse letting the string of notes take leave from this grey lighted room. My fingers rival typewriter appendages - how disobedient - from a thoughtful author, but I have hardly any thought, and the sounds seem responsible.

piano:

If I could describe the heartache heard alone, as this piano connects me with withering whethers, if I could mustre enough strength to break out of this spell, strike a dissonant chord, say goodbye to the slow sombre cloud passing by, if I could do anything but drown in so-little-time-spent perfecting a statement by a dreary recluse through the agony I provide in my extremities, I could be put right after hearing this tremulous masterpiece so in phase with the venerability of corduroy flounder. And the extreme notion of letting go reigns supreme in this eclipse of an eighth silence.

Picture a beautiful day remembered after your worst nightmare to conduct comfort, maybe during the onset of a summer rain where you remained under shelter reading a good book. Those grey skies at a particular stirring moment, one that lingers and creates a harmony, mistook you for the water and propped you. And you had forgot, plunging into the preliminaries of instrument.


Artists string descending-ly the theme that will guide you through the extremities, whether it is desired or not. The most popular won't charge you with a lost feeling. The most enjoyed will never be found.

And these are just arguments I figure in the presence of something I can't understand, but listen to and ask with high hopes for an explanation. And as the notes continue in oration and sequence, the idea becomes more clear and specific, respectively. And as the upcoming notes come to me before they should, I am there, and it cannot be explained.