Rarely is anything spoken. So much has already passed between us.
Unfinished sentences litter preparation. Words discarded; unnecessary, inadequate. Ideas agreed upon, seemingly before they even exist between us; unspoken, soundless, clearly heard. The Accompanist is entwined; sinew and spirit, around me; my accompanist, my companion, our song.
Fingers quiver above the keys. They are already accompanying the chords not yet engaged, not yet struck. I breathe. The Accompanist has taken and already given. My breath is filled warm with the resound of fingers gracing keys, giving life to ink and page- giving life to me.
This is a bizarre act of engagement. The entwined sense and sound goes back and forth between us. The inspiration from one to the other has n...