#96

under the cumulus clouds hovering in a bright blue sky, below the very sky itself, the air turns darker, grayer. the fog not made of clouds, but of atmosphere and hope long thrown by the wayside: a town.
tired bricks settle into the earth a little more each day. fatigue characterizes everything, from the passers-by, to the flowers in the park. they all ache, they all stretch, hearing their bones, their stems, crack and press and loosen for the smallest moment of relief.
through the fog, blocked by an aging mahogany door, a man sits on a bench in his living room.
the piano is big, obsidian, bold and defiant. he begins to play, and with each passing moment, his arthritic hands become smooth, lithe, young. suspenseful trills, violent runs, the Romanticism of Mendelssohn, the simplicity of lullabyes.
the vibrations race through the open window, into the dampened street, shaking buildings to life. tired workers shudder off their chill, look up, look at each other, one even dares to crack a tiny smile at a child. with each note, tinkling in the upper register, booming contradictions from the left hand, he brings life to the city. the muted notes gain resonance as the fog lifts, and the tiniest bit of sky beams through.