In a white room
Far away from where you and I are sitting cross legged
A thin, mid thirties man sits down at a piano
And his fingers press down four keys
Which in turn bring /four/ sounds into the world
They travel to our ears
A diminished seventh chord?
Interesting choice.
The chord soothes all it touches:
It fills our ears with bitter caramel,
as the notes tussle and riot to be recognized by our minds...
I look over to you; you seem to enjoy its sound?
He removes his fingers from the keys
As the strings expel the final ghosts of sound from their cores
Silence cascades over the ear like beeswax
And that is where our tableau rests.
Here, having heard our fill of song,
We learn to listen to the space between the notes
The soft rush of a key that has been pressed down,
But has not yet struck home on a string.
The lift of the middle finger from the keys produces no sound;
But is more of a performance than the /entire/ sonata.
