Tonight I will stay with Mozart. Because tonight I want to cultivate a strange happiness and pretend I am like them, the ones who understand music, because tonight I am insomniac like insomniacs.
If you are reading this you must switch on Tchaikovsky and lie in your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and think of all the places inside you that music can touch.
Nothing like this winter when you don’t have sleep in your eyes. All you do is crib and be depressed about the weather. They are all running you think. But hey, I am sleeping. I am different. Such a bad thing isn't it, being different without a cause?
Right now I am writing this shit. You will read it later. I will read it later too and curse myself. Sometimes when I am typing such shit on the screen I hear the sound of some ancient type-writer being pressed, and I romanticize about myself in third person.
Some distant eyes watching me write, while someone is playing the piano on the far-side of the room. Roll over Beethoven.
The night casually flirts waiting to end with a jerk. But I think it’s the piano music that keeps the night alive. It goes on and on, time moves slowly with the music. Suspended time.
Mr. Auden, we cheated time. Mr. Frost, we are friends with the night.
On some days like this I imagine telling someone to play such a music on my death bed. Perhaps on my deathbed I will ruminate about tonight.
Perhaps it will dilute time a little. Perhaps it will prolong my life just a bit. Why do we fear death? Is it because life is so painfully beautiful? So much love to give.
So much more to get in return? The lonesome romance of youth, so little faith in today that you get to plan life backwards from death, hoping it’s far ahead in time.
Always believing in life to come. Always. The music seems to confide in me some ancient soul secret. The kind of wacky comradeship some weird people get. Music, like wine was invented by man. On nights like this you love humanity. You forget your woes, knowing that after the music stops you will sleep like a log.
The night ends now, little birds are chirping, insulting the music.
If you are reading this you must switch on Tchaikovsky and lie in your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and think of all the places inside you that music can touch.
Nothing like this winter when you don’t have sleep in your eyes. All you do is crib and be depressed about the weather. They are all running you think. But hey, I am sleeping. I am different. Such a bad thing isn't it, being different without a cause?
Right now I am writing this shit. You will read it later. I will read it later too and curse myself. Sometimes when I am typing such shit on the screen I hear the sound of some ancient type-writer being pressed, and I romanticize about myself in third person.
Some distant eyes watching me write, while someone is playing the piano on the far-side of the room. Roll over Beethoven.
The night casually flirts waiting to end with a jerk. But I think it’s the piano music that keeps the night alive. It goes on and on, time moves slowly with the music. Suspended time.
Mr. Auden, we cheated time. Mr. Frost, we are friends with the night.
On some days like this I imagine telling someone to play such a music on my death bed. Perhaps on my deathbed I will ruminate about tonight.
Perhaps it will dilute time a little. Perhaps it will prolong my life just a bit. Why do we fear death? Is it because life is so painfully beautiful? So much love to give.
So much more to get in return? The lonesome romance of youth, so little faith in today that you get to plan life backwards from death, hoping it’s far ahead in time.
Always believing in life to come. Always. The music seems to confide in me some ancient soul secret. The kind of wacky comradeship some weird people get. Music, like wine was invented by man. On nights like this you love humanity. You forget your woes, knowing that after the music stops you will sleep like a log.
The night ends now, little birds are chirping, insulting the music.
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