It started slowly. With the sound of violins creative and emotional. Melancholy by friction of the bow on the strings. By the long agony of the instrument, which was repeated again and again. And then suddenly it was as if the body itself is made violin. He did violence to the rise endlessly in the treble, while the sadness itself turned into a tenor voice in the heart. Her rose, rose. As inevitable as life and death. Then, after the slow agony of the instruments, "said the calm place.
(written a few weeks ago)
And Phoenix had more and more ashamed of what he wrote, his lack of modesty.
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