He is one of the few who hold her reflection in his gaze. A girl. Blink. A beast. Blink. She made music in the same manner that she created her world. To others, it is a manner which knows no manners, and dismisses all reason. But if you insist that purpose in her cruel world must have existed, it was to create the illusion of spontaneous generation. She sat at the piano bench with eyes closed, self-control relinquished, hands without a master, and notes spawning from nothing. There, she made melodies of maggots crawling out of the flesh once belonging to a life she never intended on taking- never thought would be harmed because of her empty decisions. So on and on went the reckless runs and capricious crescendos, drowning out any voices pleading with her to stop confusing naive with cowardly, and impulsive with irresponsible. It was far from the beautiful, raw art she wanted so desperately to convey. When he came along she shivered in the nudity of her childish compositions. For the first time, she wanted cellos and oboes and bells. She wanted symphonies! His silent eyes spoke volumes. And when she dared to gaze back, I saw her for who I had truly been.
