There was nothing left to do, at the moment. But in a few hours, he’d have to make a decision.
The clock spoke up 44 minutes later, Chopin’s Nocturne #2 bleeding through the dust-laden pock-mark decibel diffusing plastic marsh right next to his head, blaring oboe, wincing, unnerving. He hobbles from the wedged in bed to his camper-chic hand-crank shower.
Chopin would not relent. The piano seeped into his sadness, crawled around and curled up there, for a rest. Sadness wanted a rest.
Joy Sprinkles Ad Nausea