he is a pair of washed out denim. the legends whisper of the time when light slipped past our fingers, evading the grasp of eagerly cupped hands. for what happens when the lantern flickers out? an eclipse baptizes the earth, and we are bathed in inky darkness. but unlike an eclipse, he cannot afford to hope. the light, to him, is our dark. and so, veiled in ashy smoke, he wanders among the trail of lost souls. trapped between two worlds, forever cursed to be gatekeepers. meager servants at the master’s table. but sometimes, i see it. when fingers coax rhapsodic melodies and burnt-honey harmonies from ebony and ivory. waves of sound collide with the force of a thousand supernovas, and you can hear their echoes like floating specters. surpassing limits he never knew existed. it shines, luminous even under shuttered eyelids. and for a fleeting moment, he is reborn again.
During quarantine, music has been pretty much the only thing that's been keeping me sane. So, I'd like to express some appreciation for my piano!