A sweet melody. A soft tone. A roughed up edge but bright as star shine. The notes are so sharp they leave that tasty crimson color along the clef. The lines are like walls they bring in the tempo, they set the mood, notes told to hit where. Notes that no longer are soft. They get heavier and choppier. Soon enough the whole piece is a bunch of lines and circles and accent marks. Nothing makes sense. The notes run together there is no beat. The steady beat in the background continues to fade to nothing. Soon there is silence. Nothing but utter silence. A whisper echoes through the crowd. Amongst these notes are hidden words. Each note a letter expressing something more. A word or a phrase that if played in one way could mean two different things if not placed correctly. The musician is who controls his movements but fails to overcome the obstacles ahead. He drops his instrument and begins a new stretch. A new instrument a new sheet of music. The lines flow together and come together in the right places. The tempo set. The mood is in place. The orchestra starts singing and the heavens open above to welcome the music, the whispers, the forgotten notes, the meaningful accents, and most of all, after the show is over all that is left is the lullaby in which the musician once played. The lullaby of life.
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