onboo

The piano keys seem to play themselves as I close my eyes and let my fingers dance to the music in the air. The air is dark and filled with the smell of blood, with the screams of those who are long lost in the empty shadows. Each note that plays seems to tear the flesh off of my fingers. The blood from my hands start to paint a picture dancing to the song. The air then changes from agony and pain to longing and crying with beauty. How long have I been playing? How many times have I played these songs? Will I have to play them again someday again? The sky is covering its face from what lies beneath. Not even the sky wishes to smile while I a