Once I was considered to be a child prodigy. Once I was really bright. They would watch me from a distance like a rare piece under pseudo museum lights, they wouldn’t have the heart to touch. My fingers were fast, my coordination, a miracle, my posture, a sight to behold. I was distilling elegance, black and white. Fragments, however, used to wreathe into my mind while playing, full of eerie scenes and instant, fleeting cuts. They were eminent in their persistence, ungracious in timing. One day, one cold, one grey, one industry, one icy hall, before one or two or maybe four judges, I suddenly stood up in the middle of a cloak-and-dagger Brahms and yelled: “Bazoooooooookaa!” They were taken aback.
I need to buy a washing machine.