With the opening bars, she was transported back, all those years ago, into the blank cell like space of a college practice room. She was there again, late, looking out into an endless black sky and discovering what a Nocturne could be.
In the thin dust on her own piano, it lay in a pile of volumes, the pages unturned, with phrases silent and ignored, the pull of cadence, incomplete.
* * *
There is a short piece of mine on Catapult to Mars today.
You can read it here
Thanks to Gordon for choosing it.