The Piano Player

Ribbons of music drift in a vast hall, to complete with a chattering hoard, whilst a lone fly tries to escape though a pane of glass. Did the fly escape, most likely not. Did the chattering stop, never.

I attempt to understand the framework of sound as the musician rests for a moment, and the surrounding chatter hugs me. But the strings of sound fade, never to return, for people move on. As I must do.

Today in Leeds I will open books and discover images. I will chatter over cups of tea.  And while travelling home will briefly see the black frame of Kirkstal Abbey. It may be the music of the universe for me. But the magical ribbon of life moves on. Now the author in me says record it; yet sadly I never learnt how to play the piano, or how to write musical notation.

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