It was always the same tune. At least, it was always the same four bars. By the time he got to the fifth it was always different, and one Roger Radcliffe couldn't be satisfied with a single variant he played. He'd been at it for hours upon hours, well past dinner and into a pocket of the evening where time paid no heed. Staring at the same unfinished piece of sheet music could drive a man mad, and by the looks of things, he was very nearly arriving at that point. Roger flexed his sore, callused fingers as they braced above the keys of the music department's fine old piano.
Bar one -- nice. It led well into the second, and the third was positively titillating. Number four held such promise, and as he neared the fifth and the crescendo threatened to mount -- -- It still sounded weird.
The positively mad man let out a frustrated groan as he snatched up his sheet music and screwed it into a ball, lobbing it over his shoulder. He reached for his pipe, lit up, inhaled deeply. "Come on, old boy," he muttered on an exhale. "Stop writing shit."
