At home at last, passing by, shacked my head for the many places I had been and for a moment could be alone walking pass jabbing my pointer finger in the chill to the stick, while holding the violin in the other. Inclining my neck down above the instrument hugged the chain of a moment, my lip curved up with memories of the friends of my mother seating with her and calling me Violin as I played the sound to them. And you know those are the stories that no one knows, when you decide to play at home to your best friends and family, this time she was not there not my mother, nor my ex-wife.

 In motion pacing back and forward, blind eye from viewing feel silent while playing music, hollowed, filling a time that had changed and its a responsibility to change with it. The sonorous cords took over the room, the agony, the inventions, the rupture. My breath cough and lost a note repeating the attention to slide it up through and down near my throat, killing me with the impulse of the hand and rhythm out my chest, supplicated desperately, flat feet standing curving, transforming the compass into sculpting winds while slamming my head in the air, for this space who fits in perfection tasting the same, on a sec, contorted in angry astonishment, repeating every mistake as if it was yesterday in that little child was one, playing to feel the best, refrained from grant stays. 

On the rich bass of the voice, after a few hours and a shower, said yes on the phone. A visit came after other calls.