On a small plateau, in the sandy outskirts of a faraway town with no name, there is a raised platform with a white marble Piano standing tall. The notes play themselves, as they always have. Instinctively, with no filter or pause for thought, they don’t mind, because no-one hears, like the last tree to ever fall in a deserted forest, things never heard.

The beautiful tones of the keys softly weeping their meaning, the composers last breath etched out in nonsensical script, but The Piano knows, but only The Piano knows. Often it is playing in ways some people could understand. but it doesn’t matter, because no matter how loud it plays, they don’t hear. It’s like a whole other language.

One day a person came, and touched the silky keys, combined the races, and played through the bigotry, felt the composers words pass through him, in a magical air of language and sharing. The Piano was finally free.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vWNhq0ftEs

For the first time, all the universe sings, all the clouds are dancing, the sky is filled with words, the oceans turn to Ink with which to write the great nonsensical script. All is alive and everyone suddenly matters no more, because The Piano was finally talking to someone who knew. The truth is not something that is taught, it is felt. like water reflecting water, it is clear as that.

However, as is the fear of all mortal things, and the inevitability of our cyclic nature, things come to an end, the stool grew suddenly light, bereft of its player, but The Piano chose once more to carry on singing out the chords, because it had known, it had felt the touch of someone who cared.

And it won’t ever stop, trust me, go back there and it will still be there.

I hope.