he was the musical man. no one could quite play a tune like him. the pluck of a cello with the flick of his tongue. the trumpets, they roar, with every riddling hum. this musical man knew only to strum, make sounds disappear and come back with a drum. ‘play your last note!’ cried the silencing storm, who stood only to dampen; to live in abhor. the musical man, the brother, the son, said, ‘oh, I’m not done. no, I am not done! for I will play my music until my eyes see the sun!’ so play your music, mr. musical man and watch as the sun comes again and again.

be well,
bcb