From the windy willow weather into the stale stagnant corridor.
The light casts a pale yellow shade on the crumbling cracking walls.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock, on the door and with a creak it opens.
The fiery face of the piano teacher appears.
Black springs replace hair, and gray pillars stand as teeth.
With a foreign accent he welcomes his clay to be molded.
Out comes the book of black and white set above the white and black.
Those little hooks talking their language.
Hearts beat in time with the benevolent beat.
The piano teacher sits down tenderly on the decimated leather stool.
Long fingers brushing left to right and all over. Lost in a monochrome planet.
As the music gets intense so does the movement of the fingers.
Eyes closed.
Sharp breaths.
Then it is over.
The last echo of musical notes quavering in the ear.
The little clock hand hits the top indicating the end.
Every lesson is just another note on the sheet.
Always progressing but never finishing.
Just like every musical journey.
But once you go in too deep you can not come out.
I have seen it.
