Ardyon weisse


Obvious pseudonym


Bi :)

Poetry is the language of the soul

“Any place you love is the world to you.”¬Wilde

The pianist

August 18, 2020

He despised waking up; days never got better in Kronos' hands. The curtains never drawn, the mansion was devoid of clocks, any indication of time. The atrophied man dragged his hulk, mechanically fading to the music room. The piano reposed there, shrouded in dust. Tears joined its grey robe until hunger emerged. The shadow responded, directing itself to the fridge ---empty that day. He would have to buy food.
The man loathed going out; loathed the pity on people's face. They merely saw the pianist having lost his husband and right hand in that car crash three years ago.

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