→ A Puppet To The Chorus

All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it.
Jean Cocteau

It was amazing how unimposing insanity could be; Charles was a good representation of this on the bright Sunday morning, loitering between the coffee shop and the park. Just pacing the same steps as if he was lost, or waiting for something; truth be told he was waiting for someone but he didn't know whom yet. The sky was turning a softer azure, as if the tone itself was being blended with a shade of gray and softening not just the light but all the colors below. A cloud or two drifted overhead but not nearly enough to make this Sunday any less beautiful.

Charles liked blue, liked it in that vain way he had always liked his eyes, liked it as it was a contrast to the grays, reds and browns of the music room. Especially the reds. Charles could stand out like a ghost amongst all that red, soaked from head to toe with only that illuminated blue reflecting the dim light. Horrible and yet beautiful all at once. It was perfect, it fit him, the music he made was like no other-- it kept him fed, safe, protected, everything he could ever want and all he needed to do was return the favor with time. Not with his time, no of course not; then who would play the music? But with the time of others, their months, years, decades, whatever was left-- one could never be sure; he didn't pick by time either. However much they had left was of no concern to him unless he was running desperately low. No, he picked them because each of them had been perfect; suited to the song in his mind and soul. Each possessed what he needed to make the notes ring true and perfect in the symphony of life and death.

They would be out of time, sure, but they would live forever in the music-- and forever was far better than a few human decades.

A wistful sigh at the thought of his music; the music that was waiting for him back home, aching for him to press his fingers against the keys and release every pent up note like forgotten memories. All perfect and broken. Charles pushed a hand through those short chocolate strands, trying to clear his mind of that swollen ache of impatience. He needed to be sure. They needed to be perfect and so far he had found mediocre at best.