There lies a crescendo of whispers, arguing with themselves. The resonances of echoing solitude make a glorious chorus of stark contradictions. But shall we listen? Indeed, the soundless symphonies play on.
The graceful pirouette of certainty and uncertainty, hand in hand. A melodrama too poignant, too ironic to ignore. Together, apart, intertwined, perpetually completing one another. Perhaps one should take notes, but then, perhaps not.
Composed of words unspoken, layered with meanings unmeasured. The notes ascend only in thought, descending ghostly upon the blind pianist. Is every chord a reflection of a reflection, or just an echo of a fragment?