@awarriorofwords
That’s one more article off the docket. Keats submitted the album review to his publisher, swiping out of his e-mail before stuffing his phone back into his pocket.
The work hadn’t exactly been running dry lately, but it certainly felt dry and with an overwhelming tedium accumulating with each and every review assigned to him. Maybe that’s why the Open Door Conservatory (aptly named, if he said so himself) was so calming.
Open recitals were never about egoistic ‘voice’ or ingenuity. Instead, they were slavishly faithful to the music written so long ago. Ingenuity came naturally, bouncing off the skillfully designed auditorium walls.
Keats found few other places in the city so full of focus and even fewer so silent when the conservatory was empty.
It was drizzling when Keats came in that day, scuffing the soles of his shoes against a door mat and hurrying inside to the concert hall. Empty. Good. He could sort out his thoughts. The concert lights were on like a flashpoint in the relative darkness. Maybe there would be a concert later that night? It drew him in, his footsteps echoing softly against the carpeted floor.