There is an old man sitting on the opposite side.
The whole journey he has been scribbling away frantically,
Through pages,
Turning pages,
Flipping back.
I finally look over to see.
He has a mixture of manuscript and lined paper,
Words and music.
Swapping between pieces of paper
as he has new ideas for music,
then lyrics,
then back to music.
Tapping his foot
- hearing his creation form inside his head
nodding,
tapping along,
stopping.
- that's wrong
then a scribble
followed by more frantic writing.
Trying to capture all of these ideas before they fade away.
I wish I could have heard the beauty of his creation.
Friday, 16 January 2009
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