Is here.
Come if you can.
I am aching from the first notes of this playing. I can feel him sweep his fingers gently, press them firmly, and jab them as if he is thrusting a sword through my heart. My face feels as if a ghost has brushed a sleeve across my face. Suddenly, everything old is old again. There are no machines, no digital realm, only the taut strings and loose levers, waiting to plunge through the air and into the ocean of sound.
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