Working as a janitor in a village community centre. Days were dead and filled with dust. I would, mid sweep, find myself drawn. There i would sit, in front of the battered piano, my fingers would let themselves play across the keys – building slow progressions of jazz-like tones. over and over, the same series, piling one on top of the other, little refrains that tugged at something deep inside. To anyone listening in perhaps nothing special, but to me like pulling on the strings of my being.

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