Insest Does It Realy Happen

Solo (short story)

I would like to post here to wish you wrote this small, with all their hearts, happy birthday to one of the most special people I have ever known.
Happy Birthday, Baby, now you've had enough to hear it but I can not really thank you for being the wonderful friend you are.
Your presence in my life was and is invaluable. I hope
strongly that your every wish come true.

Caravaggio, Musicians , c. 1595., Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

I was sitting for so long on that floor that I thought I had taken root.
I could even imagine, white and dry as the bones were buried under my butt.
I lost count of the time we'd spent locked in there.
You asked me to keep you company while trying to solo the rate of year-end.
Brash, had chosen the central altar to practice while I, more discreet, I was in rincattucciato right aisle to listen.
feet rest on a star red marble, surrounded by golden-winged angels of stucco.
I, however, sat on a tombstone, and I was just about dark and cold.
watched your fingers broken and I smiled thinking about how to deceive people about the appearance of the musicians.
is not the beauty of features to create the magic of their music, but the magic of their music to make people believe that everything around us is, in turn, full of magic.
That makes sense to spend the night locked in a cathedral to play the violin.
The way you kept it resting on the shoulder, where the angle of the chin caressed his cheek and dripped the desire to make sure he was comfortable, while the fingers and the bow touched him with the security of their doctors.
O lovers.
the warm glow of the candles we lit the wood seemed flesh of a woman, soft and sensual. You tear
Didst thou appear groans holding and releasing the taut strings, brushing hour light and slow, now fast and passionate.
As I continued my forehead is beaded with sweat, but her face seemed satisfied, satisfied with the execution and the effect that, with one eye, studied extract it from my varied expressions.
Along with ropes, in fact, stroked and pinched my heart.
More: decide the rhythm of my breath, as the next day hoping to capture one of the public.
wanted the lips of teachers open like petals of flowers, that cheeks are stained with the reflections of fire in the wood of your violin. Amber
dense wax between your fingers dirty.
wanted to hear God
I was content, instead of being cherub.
I would have accompanied her voice with the voice and sung the praises of your art.
You, Lucifer talent in the Kingdom of Heaven. I
, prophet unheeded.
I was sitting for so long on that floor that I thought I had taken root.
I could imagine that the wings of stucco angels quiver in the ring of your notes.
I lost count of the time we'd spent locked in there.
But when the music will pierce the soul like rain of pins, time stops with your heart.