|
The Bride Pachenbel Canon. Ancient notes caress his home’s exposed brickwork; withered plaster folds away to reveal a crumbling spine. Dying ceilings, ruined windows, carpet as thin as mist: all bow before the player’s timeless skill, unable to comprehend such beauty in their decrepit presence. And yet, no one sits at the piano; no fingers caress the ivory. He lies in his bed beneath sheets stiff with cold and filth. His company is his own, no other willing to join him as the song drifts through empty corridors on a cushion of dust. This used to be a clean house, one in which pride held a prestigious role, but no longer. Now, where surfaces once shined, grime collects; where curtains proudly hung, threadbare excuses dangle like a hung man’s rags; where trinkets once stood, shattered pieces now lie dead, never again to exhibit their wares. All sense of loving died long ago... |
||