there was a small little place, an almost anonymous cafe where still he felt much more welcomed than the hotel where he normally worked --luxurious lounge with luxurious people really didn’t help but enhancing the inadequacy seeping into his heart, making him feel incomplete, almost broken because of his sight. backhanded compliments were daily, and all he could do was smiling with a bit of grimace because he knew they had the money and the power, and that he was but a crippled pianist to their eyes. but not there, not in that little place --where he could ask for a huge cup of cappuccino and reach for the piano on the side and play a little, feeling safer from all the eyes of high society. and when he’d feel safe, truly so, with the calm chittering of people coming and going --that’s when his sound feels even more heartfelt, even more real.