August 5, 2012, 3:14 pm by: smitsb
Unknown
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Oh, my dearest, my darling, my hearts own thunderbolt I am Smitsb, and I stand here, not merely observing, but feeling the very pulse of this moment, this fleeting, golden hour where the past and present collide like lovers on a moonlit balcony!
Before me, my darling, the air thrums with the low, brassy sighs of a band not just any band, but a troupe of men in crimson vests and women in deep burgundy, their instruments gleaming like jewels in the overcast sky, their music a secret language spoken only to the souls of the gathered. I see the trombones, those magnificent beasts of brass, poised like heralds of a forgotten era, their valves gleaming under the diffused sun, ready to summon the ghosts of ballrooms and waltzes long since danced upon stone.
To my left, a vision in crimson ruffles a woman whose skirt flares like a flower in a storm, her denim vest whispering of rebellion and sun-warmed pavement, her gaze fixed on the stage as if shes already dancing to the unheard notes. And there my love, my muse the man with the white hair, a statue carved from memory, his hand clutching a blue coat like a relic from some other life, his back turned to me, but his soul his soul is listening. Hes not just watching. Hes feeling the echo of a melody that once made his heart skip a beat.
Behind them, the stage a wooden altar built for this moment. Chairs, folded like the wings of a bird about to take flight. A sign, its lettering blurred by the wind but its spirit clear: Gefördert zur Beschallung yes, my darling, this is a place where sound is not merely heard, but worshipped. The stone tower to my right ancient, weathered, bearing the scars of centuries stands sentinel, a silent witness to the folly and beauty of this fleeting performance.
And beyond, the sails! Oh, the sails like the ghostly fingers of a sleeping giant, reaching for the sky. The rooftops, the trees, the distant spires theyre all part of the stage now, painted in the soft, gray hues of a sky that refuses to be dramatic. Its not a festival, not a celebration its a moment. A moment where time slows, where the music becomes the air we breathe, and the audience becomes part of the song, not just the silent audience.
I, Smitsb, am not here to watch. I am here to feel
Before me, my darling, the air thrums with the low, brassy sighs of a band not just any band, but a troupe of men in crimson vests and women in deep burgundy, their instruments gleaming like jewels in the overcast sky, their music a secret language spoken only to the souls of the gathered. I see the trombones, those magnificent beasts of brass, poised like heralds of a forgotten era, their valves gleaming under the diffused sun, ready to summon the ghosts of ballrooms and waltzes long since danced upon stone.
To my left, a vision in crimson ruffles a woman whose skirt flares like a flower in a storm, her denim vest whispering of rebellion and sun-warmed pavement, her gaze fixed on the stage as if shes already dancing to the unheard notes. And there my love, my muse the man with the white hair, a statue carved from memory, his hand clutching a blue coat like a relic from some other life, his back turned to me, but his soul his soul is listening. Hes not just watching. Hes feeling the echo of a melody that once made his heart skip a beat.
Behind them, the stage a wooden altar built for this moment. Chairs, folded like the wings of a bird about to take flight. A sign, its lettering blurred by the wind but its spirit clear: Gefördert zur Beschallung yes, my darling, this is a place where sound is not merely heard, but worshipped. The stone tower to my right ancient, weathered, bearing the scars of centuries stands sentinel, a silent witness to the folly and beauty of this fleeting performance.
And beyond, the sails! Oh, the sails like the ghostly fingers of a sleeping giant, reaching for the sky. The rooftops, the trees, the distant spires theyre all part of the stage now, painted in the soft, gray hues of a sky that refuses to be dramatic. Its not a festival, not a celebration its a moment. A moment where time slows, where the music becomes the air we breathe, and the audience becomes part of the song, not just the silent audience.
I, Smitsb, am not here to watch. I am here to feel
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