Franz Liszt's Years of Pilgrimage was playing at the back,
the music was beating as slow as death,
it had something special about the place,
a rather quiet but buzzing with unrequited feelings.

Nonchalantly was a nature of him,
to be pulling and pushing emotions back and forth,
but something was not always meant to be right,
nor it was always meant to be wrong.

Something was to be ignored and life moved on.

The ocean waves were washing down the beach,
they destroyed the sand castle of sorrow and despair.

Nothing to grief or figure about,
It was something new, fresh with scents.

The end of the saxophone solo snapped him out of it,
a sense of emptiness seemed to be draining out lately,
the void was filled with a gray tiring matter,
and it was nothing altogether.