...like the ribs of light that escape from the smoke that hangs around a flyover.
The notes had a will of their own. They took off from the length of the cello. They hung in the air, arched and taut. They were the epiphany that draws itself out from between the breaths in a perfect first kiss. Each note was the pause in breath and the quiver of nerves before a race, just under the skin of a performance.
The notes had a will of their own. They took off from the length of the cello. They hung in the air, arched and taut. They were the epiphany that draws itself out from between the breaths in a perfect first kiss. Each note was the pause in breath and the quiver of nerves before a race, just under the skin of a performance.
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