#15

the music. it sprouted from him and grew. sometimes in waves, big, glorious swelling, full of agonizing violins, bony fingers holding the bow, almost shaking with tenderness, holding each whole note as long as possible, reaching out to grasp the final bits of sound fading away.
those songs would make him ache, from the innermost part of his being, every song a story, every song more than a story.
his eyes would close, involuntarily, and the music would continue, like a cold fast wind across his lips, taking his breath away and carrying it. maybe to the next town, maybe north, to an even colder and faster wind, and maybe someday he would breathe in that same breath. and it would hold the same music and he would remember and he would be full again of that same aching tenderness.
and it would all be more than a story.