Man refuses to move unless willing. Music refuses to flow unless rhythmic. The walls of his mind will not move and will not topple.

A, a crotchet.

B flat. A dotted crotchet.

A, soft, and gentle. Quaver.

Piano. Dolce.

{legato}

Eleonore.




                                               {this is my song}



“The poor man.” The murmur passes down the halls. Everyday, a new voice that says it, as always, it is absorbed into the walls. As if they were watering the flowers on the wallpapers.

“Deaf in both ears?”  Another one. “But he is so young!”

All ignored. He is in his own mind. Behind the walls. Behind the music.

                            {second movement in the sonata in c}

“Eleonore!” The name flooded the blackness. He stood in the middle of it, like standing in the eye of a hurricane. It's so dark! So dark!

And then, a crimson curtain, one he has known all his life, fell around him. The next stanza begins and he sees graves. Tombstone after tombstone.

R.I..P Dante Alighieri

R.I.P. Dante Alighieri

R.I.P. Dante Alighieri

There his name was engraved and permanent like the past, etched in poor workmanship. And the music. The orchestra of bones and skeletons rose out of their graves. The sand fell back to the ground, escaping from the hollows of their bones. They play loud but with perfect precision.

“Play.” he whispered. “Play!”

And played they did. He swung his hands, conducting with his eyes closed. Then a single voice, high and ever so sweet, so powerful.

“Eleonore?!” His eyes snapped open, his hands in midair.

In front of him was a nude woman. With delicious curves of tempt. Her skin so fair and her locks so blond. Her breasts were round and supple. In the midst of all those monstrous creatures, she was a goddess.

She sang. Reaching out towards him, like the snake of Eden. And he went to her. The music played. And they danced to it. Danced to the ghouls and their instruments. His breath warm against her neck, she moaned.

And suddenly, a scream sang. The music screeched out of tune.

Now the woman laid on the floor of the graveyard. Her head now indistinguishable, ruined and destroyed after he had smashed it hard against a tombstone. His eyes looked down at the body in pure disgust and fury.


                       {there's no remorse and no redemption}


The curtain fell once more, and suddenly he was in a dance studio. Bloody mirrors lined the room. His head ached, the music faint. Small children began to file into the room.  Dancing in the eerie elegance of ballet.

And they too had blood all over them. He watched as they pranced and twirled.  Each step and each move made him dizzier and dizzier. It angered him so. It burned the fury already in his soul.

He grabbed the closest little girl by the wrist, and as she stared at him, he realized her skin was ashen. She slowly raised her hand, showing him a revolver. He took it and examined it....before shooting every mirror till they were no more than shattered bits.

The shards flew wildly in every direction, fixing themselves into the skin of all the little dancers and also  himself. His eyes, his hands, his feet. They all screamed in like banshee ballerinas. But this was nothing to him. Nothing compared to the pain of losing...her.
He ignored the screams, just walked. To God knows where, he just walked.


                              {like a crescendo of gratitude}


Suddenly, he finds himself in a place, where the grass was blue. And the skies were blue. And everything was just beautiful but he didn't see it.

With his bloody hands, he took the glass shard out of his eyes, and he could see. But not the beauty around him. Sight with the eyes but never his mind.

Now, what he saw was a lady in blue. Beautiful as glitter in the darkness. He stepped forward and looked down at this woman. She looked back up.

And then he stabbed the glass into her eye.

Everything turned red as hell. Even the lady. She screamed and screamed. He just took all the glass from his body, and pierced them into hers.


                             {let the music fil the night}


“Dante...” That name rolled out of her tongue.

“Eleonore...” was the one that came from his.

He found her, in their room. Sitting on their bed. Smiling so warmly. She stretched her arms out to him, her fingers telling him to come. Her fingers so long and yet so bruised from the music she made.

He found her there.

                             {don't wake me up until it's over}