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tribeca sunflower

3-12-'02: 11:54am

i was jealous of him as he threw his mallets backward in frustration and distress. i can't throw my instrument when i get angry after a particularly dissapointing session of practice. it'll break and i have no money to buy a new one. he ran his hand through his hair, which is getting quite long, and told us we could just leave, he wasn't going to play this without practicing it more.

"when will you be back to the house?"

"when i get this right."

she looked almost dissapointed. she likes to sit on the ground and watch him, using him as a muse for her poetry. that way, he can read it later and be touched. sounds like something cheesy i would do, and seeing it from a distance makes me think that it's something i won't be doing again anytime soon.

that's the difference between her and i. she watches his face, the look of determination as he pounds the notes out of the bars sweetly. i watch his hands, the heads of the mallets moving up and down, fierce and rhythmic without counting out sensitivity.

she hears the notes and sees him. words to describe him. his face. it's his music.

i hear the notes and hear the music. changes in mood. colours. it's everyone's music.

he does a great job of playing it, though.

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