This is my street : no-exit, quiet when I return from work at 9 p.m. It’s a soggy summer evening and as the air convolutes lazily around me, I hear it: the violin.
The player lacks talent and probably takes music classes only in school. So the ninth really screeches in his interpretation. Now I feel soggy inside.
Once upon a soggy summer evening I have been the child scratching the chords of the violin. I took classes for the whole length of the school year and during my summer vacation I fantasized over playing Mozart. And as the sounds convoluted in the air, my neighbors were slowly returning from work.