You press the keys to my heart, through all the nerves along the skin. Different tones and inflections breathe through me new life, pushing out music from my follicles and pores. I hear the rhythms of life around us, surrounding the world we have become entwined in – this cocoon of horsehair and hormones will always be there, buried beneath the dissonance.
If you press me and I stroke you, the elongating sounds may well clash and create; the tempo will stiffen and the ranges elongate octave by octave. In the depths of merry melody I wish to bury my every thrusted stacatto note, up and down and all around. The invigorating throbbing beneath my skin trembles my skin, and the crash of life is a sudden burst.
When we're making music the world ceases to be, but for you me and the melodies.
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