The musician stares blankly ahead. The studio has gone quiet. He has learned that great art requires a deep, crippling emotional investment. This piece is devouring each and every one of his waking moments. He is so close to greatness, but cannot be sure how to take the final step.
By this point, it is easy to blame his lack of an answer on his instruments. They are old, but well-tuned. Former possessions of very dead people. He wants to hack away at every last splinter of wood or taut cord of steel, but he knows better. Destruction would be too easy. A coward's escape from achieving perfection. Only by remaining in this personal struggle will he ever be free. His true salvation lies in creation.
That's where the new piano came from. All of his time, money, resources; every part of his material being is bequeathed to building the perfect instrument. Of course it isn't enough. They say that Rome wasn't built in a day, but it also wasn't built by one man. The musician needs help.
The smoke and filth of the city outside. He lurks in dark alleys, identical to the night sky. A weak-willed woman crosses his path. He grabs her wrist. She screams. It's over.
Back in the studio. Her soul now indistinguishable from his, he harvests what he has claimed. Each night, his victim sings her melancholy tune. Bones make the sweetest music.
