∞ [thirty-two] | accidental text post

[fatespoken]

[ private to self | unhackable ]

Nearly a month now. Not even for a cigarette. A month and a half if you don't count that time.

You're not a child incapable of self-control, at least when you choose to show it. But then there's often a need here. A trick in the bag for staying alive and another drop in that collecting jar. Look again. Others have managed and continue to manage, and you've managed with a bit of restraint. Not like you care enough to start a side job of sticking your head on your trouble.

But it's still there. A heavy weight that reaches even the tips of your fingers. A leviathan looming behind you. Insert superfluous metaphor here. Precarious, even- since you're completely incapable. For good reason.

You need to be careful.

Control seems the key word nowadays.

...

And the ticking's unbelievably annoying.

It's quiet

[ private ]


[ and here is where the private lock accidentally breaks ]

I saw a man being dragged across the sidewalk by a wild animal. A few minutes later, while passing an apartment with an open window, I heard someone playing the piano. Scriabin's Andante Cantabile Étude from his 8th Opus. Vaguely fitting, if you were to set it against the earlier scene. Though the scene may have been too whimsical for the piece, or maybe the notes too whimsical for the scene.

It was horrible.

The finger technique were clumsy, and the notes were far too heavy and muddled. You could tell the player was bending at the fingertips, his palms collapsing under the weight of the chords. He didn't really know the notes, rather he rushed into playing it. The uncertainty hovering before each note was certainly a clue.

His notes were dead. Empty pieces of sound rather than one of Scriabin's colorful, emotive compositions-- he was said to have Synesthesia, actually. Certain colors would coordinate with different sound, such that one would have to wonder if playing the piano was like an acid trip for him.

The Patetico would have been more fitting for today.

[ooc: If you're curious, here's the Andante Cantabile (Étude Op. 8, No. 11) and the Patetico. (Étude Op. 8, No. 12) ♥! ]

Comments

[treadingdawn.livejournal.com]

Yes. You sound like you know how to play.

[fatespoken]

My father plays. Very well, in fact.

[treadingdawn.livejournal.com]

I didn't know that. Will you be inheriting the practice?

[fatespoken]

You weren't supposed to know.

And no. I can't play, remember? Not well enough to count.

[treadingdawn.livejournal.com]

Perhaps you mean to say you can't play well, yet.

[fatespoken]

No, I can't play.

I don't want to "inherit" anything from him.

[treadingdawn.livejournal.com]

But you sound like you'd enjoy it, Amory.

[fatespoken]

Enjoy? I'm just rambling. I would never have the patience for it.

Having to listen to him for hours means I've inevitably absorbed miscellaneous facts.

[treadingdawn.livejournal.com]

Or you've paid close attention.

[fatespoken]

I admitted earlier her was very good.

Now, will you just stop picking at it, Caspian.

[treadingdawn.livejournal.com]

Hm. All right. Because you asked so nicely.

he* fffffff, typos

[fatespoken]

Now piss off, Caspian. Go tend to your horse or pig instead of being a nuisance.