ｏｄｄ
usvgii
The sound of his clock was all he heard as he laid in bed. The wrinkled sheets concealed him from the shy rays of the sun that tried to take a peak at him between his curtains. Hesitant to move out of comfort of his bed, he whined to the empty room, complained at the clock and begged the sun to give him a few more minutes. His childlessness was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing--
Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu, Op. 66 --
He sat up, his bed sheets still covering his head and he took out one of his hands out from under the sheet to grab his phone and brought it under the temporary home he had under the fabric. The phone was cold, it kind of beat the purpose to be under the sheets if he placed a cold, plastic phone on the side of his face. On the other side of the line was his manager who asked him if he had worked on the composition he was supposed to that day. He pushed the sheets off of himself and looked at the clock, the hands signaling it was a little over two in the afternoon. He ended the call prematurely and pulled himself out of bed.
His feet dragged themselves to his grand piano, not bothering to fix his bedhead or even get out of his pajamas. He picked up a tortured notebook which was filled about half way. He read it through for hours with having sudden interruption of his fingers pressing specific keys, looking for the particular mood that the written material was in. After hours and hours, he had a couple of minutes down. Stopping after every few seconds to write down his music onto the music sheet.
