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The black and white ivory keys produce sound; the little square ones craft words. With each press, a creation. With each movement, a dynamic. How my hands move about from one side to the next, finding their ways into each other; in a mad jumble, weaving together something whole. The rising action, the crescendo, how it climaxes, then it descends, softens down, hush, hush, rest. Maybe it's not about being one or the other, it's being both. Starting, waiting, moving, stopping, they all come together in the end.

It all comes together in the end.