Fingers would tremble as they'd glide across the piano---anxious creatures basking and waiting, seeking to make a mistake, to linger far too long a note, to torment himself and make the instrument whine with age. In the days of yore, fingers that were vagabond would venture forth nervously, clumsily allowing errors to occur as they'd slip and slide along its silky surface. What weakness he allowed, before the man would surpass it, a superior grin etched onto a virile visage; snideness its replacement.
A buoyant song would hum, cracked notes smoothed as time would fly violently by, before what was ceased to exist, a silence its completion.
If only he cared about others like he did for songs.
A buoyant song would hum, cracked notes smoothed as time would fly violently by, before what was ceased to exist, a silence its completion.
If only he cared about others like he did for songs.