Mozart

I touch a key, and it begins to sing, this piano does to me, adrift about, loosely, on the epitah of this scoring sea, I never know, of that I don't, seem to comprehend, why it is, everyday, I have this music in my head, I pay the notes, and vibration touts, a silhouette of the key, but after all, of this applause, I simply go without, knowing how, I am endowed, with the very genius in which I'm seen.