hypnothalamus

Moving out.  In the living-room, only the grand piano remains, black and shiny, like an insect trapped on the ground, one wing extended as if trying to fly right before death caught up with it. The sound would be different now with no furniture around, no books to soften the notes, no rug to dampen the low vibrations. I never learned to play and now the piano seems to epitomize the black bulk of my regrets... defiant, untouched. On a whim I sit in front of it. I let my fingers flow as they will, my mind wonders and I drift away for a while. After I don't know how long, I stop. The sound  is  different in an empty room... and with a trace o...