I was sitting alone on my balcony, sipping my sixth beer, and almost at the verge of falling into a drunken sleep. It had been a particularly bad day. The glare of the moon hurt my eyes and the crickets sounded like a marching band; I felt myself slipping into a pit of despair and I couldn’t resist. I started dreaming of strange things.

Soon, I was awakened by music — the soft sound of a piano — drifting out of an open window and being carried down to me by the summer breeze. Debussy’s Clair de Lune. It wasn’t a recording, for the hands that played it often faltered, and yet managed to maintain a perfect emotion. Each note struck my brain like a hammer; soon I was fully conscious and in tears.

Who lived there? I had never bothered to find out. The piano kept on ringing in the moonlight, its volume rising and falling with the wind while I stood transfixed under its spell. For a moment, I reached out at the ever distant utopia and touched it with a fingertip.


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