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There was once a time when notes meant something to me.

The anticipation before the lifting of the baton,

The intake of breath, deep, like filling a jug from its depths.

The nerves in my fingertips tingling, poised, just enough perspiration.

The empty space between the notes, that’s what music is,

The push and pull, the manipulation of time, ever so slightly.

The melody soars, like clouds amongst clouds,

The chill that runs through my spine, in the most pleasant of ways.

The relief, the calm while holding that last note, that last chord,

The crowd hushed, as the last breath of air evaporates away.

The satisfaction.

And I wonder. Will this be the last serenade.

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