FestiveCheez
Bluelighter
He sits in the corner, the best place to bounce sound through the room. You may have seen him, his back turned to you as you walked through the open doorway with your latest human accessory on your arm. Considering how short he really is, he sits tall and dominates the row of keys before him. His fingers work like soldiers in the trenches, sneaking out across forboding terrain, shooting bullets of sound in any which direction, and falling back. His eyes are dark and crisp and full of excruciating insight, but that means nothing to you because you will never look into his eyes, but merely listen to the aching of his humanity as it echoes through etudes and the occasional waltz.
It is only at night, after the drinks and the fever of passion, that you feel his stare in your head, the soundless void of his absence. You have your life; why let your mind disturb its daily droning by giving ponderance to a solitary music man in the corner of a society party? You have no answer. Just a snapshot.
It is only at night, after the drinks and the fever of passion, that you feel his stare in your head, the soundless void of his absence. You have your life; why let your mind disturb its daily droning by giving ponderance to a solitary music man in the corner of a society party? You have no answer. Just a snapshot.
