The Soul Leaves On its Own

He stuttered that last arpeggio beautifully, leading to a crescendo filled with aural angels whose all-encompassing whiteness bled into everything.

As abruptly as he started, he stopped. His son was the first to rise, beating his palms against each other. His son was also the first to reach the pianist when he oh so slowly slid off the bench with a muffled thud well received by the hall’s acoustics.

And in giving the performance of his life, the pianist gave his life.

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