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It's 21:15PM.
I'm sitting here, thinking of something to write about.
No real reason. I just need to write.
-------------
It was a lonely night upon the hills of a lonely town. The children slept, only the thoughtful and the working would stay awake. Once more at the top of the hill sat the man, the man who didn't sleep.
He watched the world with sad eyes, wondering eyes. The sort of eyes that could tell you much about the world, if only you took the time to just sit, and watch them.
Eyes that have seen so much but tell so little, they flipped through the books and notes, they flew through the skies and the birds and the lands and the wars and landed back in his head with a bang. They snapped into position, and he was no longer here, but there.
He ran his fingers across the surface of the keys of the piano, which stood outside in the rain. The man placed down a few high notes, and made himself comfortable on the chair.
At the top of the hill sat the man, with his piano, and began to play. The man who didn't sleep. There was no need.
And so he played, notes echoing from the depths of the man's mind, and then dancing from the black piano that stood at the top of the hill.
He's playing again, he's playing. The man at the top of the hill that never sleeps, he's playing.
The children woke and smiled, the parents calmed them, told them the man was old, the man wasn't right, don't go near the man.
But the man at the top of the hill, the man that never sleeps, the man that played his piano outside in the rain at the height of darkness. We want to hear the man play we want we want.
You can't hear the man play, cover your ears, cover your ears. And so the children spoke softly to each other, and pretended they couldn't hear the music through their hands over their ears, protected from the insane man at the top of the hill.
But there was one that wouldn't listen to anything but the sweet music that echoed from the man's head and through the keys of the piano. The little girl, and she walked calmly up the hill dressed in no more than her pyjamas.
The man who didn't sleep watched her with his sad, knowing eyes. She walked before him, and he continued to play.
The eyes that have seen the world, eyes that have flown through skies and swam to the depths of life... and the girl watched them, and she listened to them. And the man stopped playing, and watched her.
And upon doing so, she simply stared, opened her mouth, and asked the man a question he didn't expect to hear, of all the questions in the world. Are you cold?
It is raining, so perhaps I am. The man looked back down at his notes, the ink that began to run. Worried parents ran up the hill, and collected the girl. The mother grabbed the pyjama wearing girl, and walked away. Not once did she look into the eyes of the man, the eyes that never slept. The eyes that played the piano in the rain at the top of the hill.
What do you think she asked him? The children grew excited and waited longer and longer until he began to play again, which of course, he did.
The notes that echoed through his mind and out into the keys of the piano. Should we go see him too? Our parents will be upset.
The eyes that have seen so much closed, and opened. The man played the piano, and let the notes bounce through his soul and out into the open air.
Parents grew more fearful, and checked their children to find them with their ears uncovered. The children were told once more, with shaken voices and blurred vision.
And the man who never slept played.
In the pouring rain another child appeared, and ran up towards the piano, but was quickly caught by the stronger parent, who ran to save his child.
We can't just sit here. The rain poured faster and faster, and the man simply played. The children opened the window and fled, running towards the man, towards the piano.
And they stood before him, and they watched him, and they saw his eyes. They sat, and listened.
The children sat around the man who never slept, who played his piano at the top of the hill in the pouring rain.
A boy looked deep into the eyes of the man who never slept, and when he stopped playing for the second time, he asked him a question. Something that perhaps would explain it all, a question that would set them straight. The man waited, and smiled at the question. The question that was asked by the child to the man who's eyes have seen the world, and although he did expect a question, it wasn't the one he felt he was to be asked. Instead of being asked Why, he was asked Why not.
The man contiuned to smile, blinked, and said he couldn't answer. He didn't know himself.
And the parents came and picked up their children. They didn't look into his eyes.
So the man stopped playing. He placed his face on the cold wood of the piano, and went to sleep.
I'm sitting here, thinking of something to write about.
No real reason. I just need to write.
-------------
It was a lonely night upon the hills of a lonely town. The children slept, only the thoughtful and the working would stay awake. Once more at the top of the hill sat the man, the man who didn't sleep.
He watched the world with sad eyes, wondering eyes. The sort of eyes that could tell you much about the world, if only you took the time to just sit, and watch them.
Eyes that have seen so much but tell so little, they flipped through the books and notes, they flew through the skies and the birds and the lands and the wars and landed back in his head with a bang. They snapped into position, and he was no longer here, but there.
He ran his fingers across the surface of the keys of the piano, which stood outside in the rain. The man placed down a few high notes, and made himself comfortable on the chair.
At the top of the hill sat the man, with his piano, and began to play. The man who didn't sleep. There was no need.
And so he played, notes echoing from the depths of the man's mind, and then dancing from the black piano that stood at the top of the hill.
He's playing again, he's playing. The man at the top of the hill that never sleeps, he's playing.
The children woke and smiled, the parents calmed them, told them the man was old, the man wasn't right, don't go near the man.
But the man at the top of the hill, the man that never sleeps, the man that played his piano outside in the rain at the height of darkness. We want to hear the man play we want we want.
You can't hear the man play, cover your ears, cover your ears. And so the children spoke softly to each other, and pretended they couldn't hear the music through their hands over their ears, protected from the insane man at the top of the hill.
But there was one that wouldn't listen to anything but the sweet music that echoed from the man's head and through the keys of the piano. The little girl, and she walked calmly up the hill dressed in no more than her pyjamas.
The man who didn't sleep watched her with his sad, knowing eyes. She walked before him, and he continued to play.
The eyes that have seen the world, eyes that have flown through skies and swam to the depths of life... and the girl watched them, and she listened to them. And the man stopped playing, and watched her.
And upon doing so, she simply stared, opened her mouth, and asked the man a question he didn't expect to hear, of all the questions in the world. Are you cold?
It is raining, so perhaps I am. The man looked back down at his notes, the ink that began to run. Worried parents ran up the hill, and collected the girl. The mother grabbed the pyjama wearing girl, and walked away. Not once did she look into the eyes of the man, the eyes that never slept. The eyes that played the piano in the rain at the top of the hill.
What do you think she asked him? The children grew excited and waited longer and longer until he began to play again, which of course, he did.
The notes that echoed through his mind and out into the keys of the piano. Should we go see him too? Our parents will be upset.
The eyes that have seen so much closed, and opened. The man played the piano, and let the notes bounce through his soul and out into the open air.
Parents grew more fearful, and checked their children to find them with their ears uncovered. The children were told once more, with shaken voices and blurred vision.
And the man who never slept played.
In the pouring rain another child appeared, and ran up towards the piano, but was quickly caught by the stronger parent, who ran to save his child.
We can't just sit here. The rain poured faster and faster, and the man simply played. The children opened the window and fled, running towards the man, towards the piano.
And they stood before him, and they watched him, and they saw his eyes. They sat, and listened.
The children sat around the man who never slept, who played his piano at the top of the hill in the pouring rain.
A boy looked deep into the eyes of the man who never slept, and when he stopped playing for the second time, he asked him a question. Something that perhaps would explain it all, a question that would set them straight. The man waited, and smiled at the question. The question that was asked by the child to the man who's eyes have seen the world, and although he did expect a question, it wasn't the one he felt he was to be asked. Instead of being asked Why, he was asked Why not.
The man contiuned to smile, blinked, and said he couldn't answer. He didn't know himself.
And the parents came and picked up their children. They didn't look into his eyes.
So the man stopped playing. He placed his face on the cold wood of the piano, and went to sleep.
Page:
That was beautiful Grix.
I use the word beautiful a lot, but that's only because I know someone who cannot write anything else, and you wrote something like that, so I'll say it again. That was beautiful.
I'm going to write something now except it's going to be bleak and desolate because I'm in that kind of mood at the moment. It's a reprise to the last story I wrote and it also has an old man (I planned components in my English lesson, mentally because I do English Lit. hence don't get to do creative writing..)
I use the word beautiful a lot, but that's only because I know someone who cannot write anything else, and you wrote something like that, so I'll say it again. That was beautiful.
I'm going to write something now except it's going to be bleak and desolate because I'm in that kind of mood at the moment. It's a reprise to the last story I wrote and it also has an old man (I planned components in my English lesson, mentally because I do English Lit. hence don't get to do creative writing..)
Yeah, very deep. And superb.
And you just wrote than in 40 minutes? Bloody hell, wish I could do that.
And you just wrote than in 40 minutes? Bloody hell, wish I could do that.
Cool, thanks.
I don't know what to say.
But I want you to know that I read that, and appriciated it immensely.
But I want you to know that I read that, and appriciated it immensely.
It's 21:15PM.
I'm sitting here, thinking of something to write about.
No real reason. I just need to write.
-------------
It was a lonely night upon the hills of a lonely town. The children slept, only the thoughtful and the working would stay awake. Once more at the top of the hill sat the man, the man who didn't sleep.
He watched the world with sad eyes, wondering eyes. The sort of eyes that could tell you much about the world, if only you took the time to just sit, and watch them.
Eyes that have seen so much but tell so little, they flipped through the books and notes, they flew through the skies and the birds and the lands and the wars and landed back in his head with a bang. They snapped into position, and he was no longer here, but there.
He ran his fingers across the surface of the keys of the piano, which stood outside in the rain. The man placed down a few high notes, and made himself comfortable on the chair.
At the top of the hill sat the man, with his piano, and began to play. The man who didn't sleep. There was no need.
And so he played, notes echoing from the depths of the man's mind, and then dancing from the black piano that stood at the top of the hill.
He's playing again, he's playing. The man at the top of the hill that never sleeps, he's playing.
The children woke and smiled, the parents calmed them, told them the man was old, the man wasn't right, don't go near the man.
But the man at the top of the hill, the man that never sleeps, the man that played his piano outside in the rain at the height of darkness. We want to hear the man play we want we want.
You can't hear the man play, cover your ears, cover your ears. And so the children spoke softly to each other, and pretended they couldn't hear the music through their hands over their ears, protected from the insane man at the top of the hill.
But there was one that wouldn't listen to anything but the sweet music that echoed from the man's head and through the keys of the piano. The little girl, and she walked calmly up the hill dressed in no more than her pyjamas.
The man who didn't sleep watched her with his sad, knowing eyes. She walked before him, and he continued to play.
The eyes that have seen the world, eyes that have flown through skies and swam to the depths of life... and the girl watched them, and she listened to them. And the man stopped playing, and watched her.
And upon doing so, she simply stared, opened her mouth, and asked the man a question he didn't expect to hear, of all the questions in the world. Are you cold?
It is raining, so perhaps I am. The man looked back down at his notes, the ink that began to run. Worried parents ran up the hill, and collected the girl. The mother grabbed the pyjama wearing girl, and walked away. Not once did she look into the eyes of the man, the eyes that never slept. The eyes that played the piano in the rain at the top of the hill.
What do you think she asked him? The children grew excited and waited longer and longer until he began to play again, which of course, he did.
The notes that echoed through his mind and out into the keys of the piano. Should we go see him too? Our parents will be upset.
The eyes that have seen so much closed, and opened. The man played the piano, and let the notes bounce through his soul and out into the open air.
Parents grew more fearful, and checked their children to find them with their ears uncovered. The children were told once more, with shaken voices and blurred vision.
And the man who never slept played.
In the pouring rain another child appeared, and ran up towards the piano, but was quickly caught by the stronger parent, who ran to save his child.
We can't just sit here. The rain poured faster and faster, and the man simply played. The children opened the window and fled, running towards the man, towards the piano.
And they stood before him, and they watched him, and they saw his eyes. They sat, and listened.
The children sat around the man who never slept, who played his piano at the top of the hill in the pouring rain.
A boy looked deep into the eyes of the man who never slept, and when he stopped playing for the second time, he asked him a question. Something that perhaps would explain it all, a question that would set them straight. The man waited, and smiled at the question. The question that was asked by the child to the man who's eyes have seen the world, and although he did expect a question, it wasn't the one he felt he was to be asked. Instead of being asked Why, he was asked Why not.
The man contiuned to smile, blinked, and said he couldn't answer. He didn't know himself.
And the parents came and picked up their children. They didn't look into his eyes.
So the man stopped playing. He placed his face on the cold wood of the piano, and went to sleep.
I'm sitting here, thinking of something to write about.
No real reason. I just need to write.
-------------
It was a lonely night upon the hills of a lonely town. The children slept, only the thoughtful and the working would stay awake. Once more at the top of the hill sat the man, the man who didn't sleep.
He watched the world with sad eyes, wondering eyes. The sort of eyes that could tell you much about the world, if only you took the time to just sit, and watch them.
Eyes that have seen so much but tell so little, they flipped through the books and notes, they flew through the skies and the birds and the lands and the wars and landed back in his head with a bang. They snapped into position, and he was no longer here, but there.
He ran his fingers across the surface of the keys of the piano, which stood outside in the rain. The man placed down a few high notes, and made himself comfortable on the chair.
At the top of the hill sat the man, with his piano, and began to play. The man who didn't sleep. There was no need.
And so he played, notes echoing from the depths of the man's mind, and then dancing from the black piano that stood at the top of the hill.
He's playing again, he's playing. The man at the top of the hill that never sleeps, he's playing.
The children woke and smiled, the parents calmed them, told them the man was old, the man wasn't right, don't go near the man.
But the man at the top of the hill, the man that never sleeps, the man that played his piano outside in the rain at the height of darkness. We want to hear the man play we want we want.
You can't hear the man play, cover your ears, cover your ears. And so the children spoke softly to each other, and pretended they couldn't hear the music through their hands over their ears, protected from the insane man at the top of the hill.
But there was one that wouldn't listen to anything but the sweet music that echoed from the man's head and through the keys of the piano. The little girl, and she walked calmly up the hill dressed in no more than her pyjamas.
The man who didn't sleep watched her with his sad, knowing eyes. She walked before him, and he continued to play.
The eyes that have seen the world, eyes that have flown through skies and swam to the depths of life... and the girl watched them, and she listened to them. And the man stopped playing, and watched her.
And upon doing so, she simply stared, opened her mouth, and asked the man a question he didn't expect to hear, of all the questions in the world. Are you cold?
It is raining, so perhaps I am. The man looked back down at his notes, the ink that began to run. Worried parents ran up the hill, and collected the girl. The mother grabbed the pyjama wearing girl, and walked away. Not once did she look into the eyes of the man, the eyes that never slept. The eyes that played the piano in the rain at the top of the hill.
What do you think she asked him? The children grew excited and waited longer and longer until he began to play again, which of course, he did.
The notes that echoed through his mind and out into the keys of the piano. Should we go see him too? Our parents will be upset.
The eyes that have seen so much closed, and opened. The man played the piano, and let the notes bounce through his soul and out into the open air.
Parents grew more fearful, and checked their children to find them with their ears uncovered. The children were told once more, with shaken voices and blurred vision.
And the man who never slept played.
In the pouring rain another child appeared, and ran up towards the piano, but was quickly caught by the stronger parent, who ran to save his child.
We can't just sit here. The rain poured faster and faster, and the man simply played. The children opened the window and fled, running towards the man, towards the piano.
And they stood before him, and they watched him, and they saw his eyes. They sat, and listened.
The children sat around the man who never slept, who played his piano at the top of the hill in the pouring rain.
A boy looked deep into the eyes of the man who never slept, and when he stopped playing for the second time, he asked him a question. Something that perhaps would explain it all, a question that would set them straight. The man waited, and smiled at the question. The question that was asked by the child to the man who's eyes have seen the world, and although he did expect a question, it wasn't the one he felt he was to be asked. Instead of being asked Why, he was asked Why not.
The man contiuned to smile, blinked, and said he couldn't answer. He didn't know himself.
And the parents came and picked up their children. They didn't look into his eyes.
So the man stopped playing. He placed his face on the cold wood of the piano, and went to sleep.
Page: