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The day we dreamed of Hilary Hahn On a train

Ros My name is Geoffrey and from the day I left in a container, just newborn, I have always had a special attraction for music. At first, in the long days seen as children, any street noise I sank into a kind of trance in which I tore my inner senses and melancholy flooded with unshed tears choked me until I see or know. At such times life hurt with another kind of pain, so intense and so vivid that it made me feel good. It was a paradox.

felt great love for the honking of cars and when I escaped from the orphanage my agency a clean box and made sure to cross streets with more traffic in Lisbon. Without thinking he had joined two activities that would take me all over the world in search of that pain that made me happy. I learned to distinguish tones and notes, times and silence, between the noises that were formed by coupling tunes and laughter of people passing and each of the faces of passers-by was an eighth or a sixteenth note, every mouth filled vocalized my melancholy silences and over piles of dropouts and many forgotten. I also learned to look at people from top to bottom.

One day in many cities later I heard a speaker that I tore the heart and tickled me from neck to toe, until I leave the box and a shoe with his foot in the medium clean. We were in the plaza of the old city of Prague and that wonderful noise came from a street behind some centuries before stretching endlessly air and while the world with a sound that I suddenly saw through my entire existence, a thread of gold that came from the future and tied me, I turned and for a moment I knew the melancholy gone when the saw Male Namesti square.

The woman was wearing brown suede boots. Half calf emerged a narrow jeans and a thick white wool jersey hugged her hips and her body and neck as I have dreamed forever from that moment. In the square there were no cars, no noise, just the music on his violin lying on his cheek. Her face and hair and eyes made me happy just to see them. So happy I could hardly bear the pain. It was another paradox.

Several days later I knew that the wonderful sound that was a girl radiated such a Bach composition. I also learned that music is another kind of noise, good family, and she called Hilary and sweet and unhurried kiss or through tickets. I knew that if I closed my eyes and saw that if he thought it spoke to me and there was sadness because she and her fans packed every day and months living together in a small room Retezova Street, right next to the coffee Mommartre, where she played her violin at night for people to fall in love and forget for a while that love is never to listen. I drank becherovka until everything is blurred me about your music and your body.

When he finished his work we strolled through the old city. Numb with cold, we embraced each other until the heat and came back to us quickly dampened the room to fuck slowly and tell old stories believed impossible that the two wet eyes laughing and hooked us again that perhaps the future they could be.

In the morning she practiced the violin and I stayed in a corner, clutching my box clean, with closed eyes and asking you please do not end up the music not to let that violin sound ever, that love. I was so afraid that everything is a delusion that I dared not open his eyes until his hand was not there to help me, to caress, to bring me into the world of dreams.

One day the music stopped.