andthismoment
I want to play the piano. I need to play the piano. If I'm not I feel empty. I know you are the same way with your painting from the desperation in you when you're not. I look down on your palette. Red and orange and yellow and green and brown and every shade inbetween.
'Where are you minors?' I ask.
'I don't need it to paint the forest in the summer, because the light is warm.'
'Not even in the crescendo?' He looks at me and I point at where the sunlight and shadows meet, at the leaves and in the back.
He smiles and says, 'A little.' And I think it's alright if I speak in scores and he in colours, because the sentiments are the same.