He sat with his cello, bow held ready in mid-air and started to run, within his mind auditorium, through every possible combination of 100 notes until he found one that fitted and, returning to his own place and time, played that combination out loud before committing it to notation paper.
Such was his life. A methodical existence for a methodical man. He never knew if any of it was any good, or even if anyone else ever liked what he produced. He merely had this compulsion and could not function if he did not churn out his 100 Note compositions.
Such was his life. A methodical existence for a methodical man. He never knew if any of it was any good, or even if anyone else ever liked what he produced. He merely had this compulsion and could not function if he did not churn out his 100 Note compositions.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt:
PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
This reminds me of the library of Babel... maybe every composition can be written...
ReplyDeleteYeah, that's true. Despite tweeted the link below the other day, I didn't think of the connection. Probably there somewhere in the back of my mind, though.
Deletehttps://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/may/04/virtual-library-of-babel-makes-borgess-infinite-store-of-books-a-reality-almost
One must do, what one must do...
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteWeek after week….;)