Jan. 15th, 2012

turnedtoproust: (scripps: by snowchimes)
It's odd to grieve for someone who technically isn't really dead, but here Scripps is with that conundrum in mind. Hector is dead. He keeps saying it to himself over and over, but it never really sinks in. All he's left with is the inherent disbelief because it's not true if he hasn't lived it. Those are the thoughts on his mind as he heavily plays a quiet dirge on the main piano, ignoring any dark looks. He's permitted to have his melancholy, just as everyone else has their turn.

Maybe, somehow, this is God's punishment. He doesn't want to dwell on such a thing, especially given the events of New Years and the guilt of a sin on Scripps' chest. He contemplates the keys of the piano once more, laying down fingers in order to play an enduring chord. Such is music, such is life. It will fill up the world with beauty in temporary measures, but it's never to last -- not permanently.

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Donald Scripps

July 2014

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