have a crush on a barista;
swear by a grinder, at a grinder;
spill while driving;
get a cupholder;
spill;
get a fat-bottom mug;
spill again;
try wearing brown pants;
believe whoever invented iced-mocha's & chocolate covered graham crackers should be canonized;
chafed at the foreign names;
ordered a large; been shunned;
and, while giggling at a Triple-Tall-Half-Caff-Skinny-cappuccino-Splash-Almond-Splash-Orange-Extra-Hot-Extra-Foam,
remember that once,
the only choices were Here
and To Go...
a poem in the bathroom at toads.
PASSION.
My passion?
...Music is pouring out into this cold afternoon air: Beethoven, Bach, Schumann, and Debussy. My practice room windows are now open to let the cold January wind in. This damp, high ceilinged room smells of dust, smoke and candels. [Sigh.] In spite of everything, a slow reluctant joy is rising once again.
AND...
I really don't know what i'd be without my little old piano. It's at the least: intoxicating...More than drugs.
Intoxicating myself with the sound of my piano keys and the smell of you still lingering on me. And here I'll stay, perfectly content.
Me? I'm a mirage.
Floating from one place to the next. Stumbling, i should say.
...as I play these haunting melodies, my piano is a comfort. "Play on, keys! Your pianist has broken the trance." I hear screaming through the melody. But, I'll play the keys this time, instead.
My old piano is a comfort tonight. Maybe it'll distract me...enough. </3
 |
| charlie. |
