31 days in november

v. dream (like the river flow)

When he plays, he knows nothing else matters.
It's not that he isn't acutely aware of all the eyes on him-- he is-- but it only adds to his smug euphoria.
He always wows them. He always does. It's expected of him.
But with his violin, it's natural to astound, to play his heart out.
The music flows over him like a river of harmonies and twanging melodies as he alternates between rich legato and plucking staccato.
But now something matters.
Someone.
He is aware of the audience holding their abated breath, swaying in tune with his music, but they are trivial right now.
His eyes fall on the only person who matters, his person, watching with bright eyes full of warmth and he thinks nothing has ever felt more right.