He kept the memories of his lovers deep down only to see them starve to death. But he was now in love with his violin, perched on the corner of the room, motionless, untouched. He worshipped her every curve as if they were lines on a coloured map where songs were cloistered in multilingual tunes. He cherished the texture of her skin in a frivolous yet naive way. He was a musician who didn´t want to touch his muse in fear of stiffling her voice with his bare hands; her inert face staring at the ceiling with blank eyes.

He had been a murderer. He was a musician now.

This was a state of comfort. A supremacy he believed he had achieved.


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