Buttery white snow, wide hips and knees, not the music maker, other one. Just as musical but won’t be following a score or sheet music more like the music of crunch on ski under snow on foot, slice through the side of mountain covered with white not grey yet, pristine white as in untouched love not red, yet. Bern, Geneva Zurich he might enjoy them too make music not like the other one, who tends vines, sound of the place he love people coming toward moving away, large small the sound of that, the ongoing continuous, help for inspiration if you want to put notes on sheets or score, teach others. Sweet high notes. All day, high notes under feet light on snow bouncing from mountain to mountain extreme beauty sound coming going. Whitely.
Tight breeches, chocolate, sparkle in eye. He leave the lovely stuff on train, distracted, sun going down the track castles on hill her yellow hair light, expensive stuff, hard to find right kind for mama, her, keep them at bay cleanin up those pesky notes slipping all over the score, floor, oh no, other one make mistakes, not him the purist. Right the first time. They’ll be at him to go back and look. Candy. For. Blonde. Sweet music. Rhine.
Sausage. Blood red. Cylindrical . Meat. Don’t worry about extending his already wide hip thigh. Shrinking corpusculus aortic valve filled with sticky viscuous cut off air supply white stuff. Palpitations. Either. Gotta have it need it now. Sausage. Don’t deter his prodigious outpouring, interfere with staying up all night writing them. Notes. His powdery pigtail dipped in grape, no ink. Juice. Apropos. Don’t finish it, sausage he did, not the big one of many notes. Requiem. Gesundheit. Too many inside his head, come out come out, lay down on paper, sing you notes. Middle of night, sausage gone, tired, sick, couldn’t, she took his notes hanging in air pasted them on paper before they escape. Deprive the world of his. Don’t. She try to sell it before it’s time, pay the rent they won’t. Don’t. Understand. Yet.
Amodeus/Albert In Bern
No boat to escape flood in brain house, sit, write numbers bounce little guy on knee, water up his socks knees don’t match don’t care. Forebrain pulsing with think, fire red in fact, She don’t care if they match, look the other way, busy with resent, think well as he. Relatively. Better. She think. All. Too. Socks. No imagination. Give frizzy white head one trouble like the Mrs. powdery hair music maker does him, Amadeus- Gesundheit. Albert goes sailing to rest his brain, figure out stuck. Amadeus goes to favorite cookie place for clear think. Chocolate chip can do that, no boat need.
Light so much, light. Bouncing off four miles wide, twelve miles long country, one. Phone, post office, bakery, must have gone there, see hear lit notes. Must have gone to drink swallow light. Powdery wig tight pants wide hips looking for pure and a jelly donut to describe the suffocating harsh surround sound enclose in pulsing, whitely. Great thoughts, no boat, no air. Only. Music.
Ludwigs In Bavaria
Mr B and the other crazy rich one who live in a castle who like helping music makers. Watering plastic flower looking for German chocolate cake in Austria where he end up
loosing sound, his head fill up with notes had to get down or be as crazy as the royal pain one. Didn’t chain him to a pole at least, have to be rescue by Lord Byron at least. Poem. Five more years.
Clara, Amadeus, Chopin in Vivay
She sing her sweet song for him on top of mountain, he might come down for cake and tea. Unsociable, working on his book for social develop on human. Being. All. Too. She made tea for visiting powered donut wig one, he did. Come. Other Mr. B. likes her too much, she was spoken for, have to stop writing those sweet notes for her only, made other him jealous. Lost his mind finally, too busy with notes not his, playing them all day, not his, other one with dark hair and bad cold came to stay brought his lady friend with boy name, tight pants and piano although it was awful heavy getting to the top of the mountain. Castles are high usually on the Alps. Need a ski lift or slaves who carry it up if their master ask. Plenty of resentment there after piano toting incident. He said they would. Be. Write book about. Even. Keep those fire going. Could get a kiss on the forehead or some bread. Other dark hair bad cold one couldn’t. Write. Only sweet notes on paper, his nose in the middle of his face. Slave were happy when they heard the sweet piano sound come from the powdery white head one in red velvet and black velvet one with bad cold. Paid off. Resentful fade. Plowing wheat field on top of mountain. Alp. No sense. Sweet notes not wheat. Food for the starved.
Music always does