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v1.3 (last commit 2024-08-22T17:45:01+00:00)
Song Credit: Arvo PƤrt, āSpiegel im Spiegelā
The cold winter air bit at his cherubic cheeks as the Old Man stepped into the warmth of the GemƤldegalerie museum in Berlin. The setting sun cast long shadows through the glass doors, and the last few visitors trickled out, leaving the space eerily quiet. The museum staff, familiar with his daily visits, nodded in silent acknowledgment, allowing him passage without question. He moved with a deliberate, slow grace, his tall, lanky frame wrapped in a heavy brownish-gray wool overcoat, the brim of his soft cap casting a shadow over his weathered face and thick bushy salty beard. His cane tapped lightly against the polished marble floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the echoes of his footsteps as he made his way to the back of the museum, to a room he knew all too well. Inside, the air was serene, thick with the reverence reserved for sacred places. The Old Man traced the herringbone path, pausing at the entrance to remove his hat, placing it softly on the bench that stood before the solitary painting on the distant wall. He knew the title, the colors, the brushstrokes that made up the image of endless reflections cascading into an abyss of repeating patterns. The lights dimmed suddenly, leaving only the painting illuminated, its glow casting a haunting light that mirrored his own fading memories. He took a seat, pulled out a pair of ear pods, and began to listen to a piece he composed a long time ago, its arpeggiated notes weaving a delicate spell over him.
A single piano note rings, followed by a second and a third in a repeating melodic arpeggio pattern The arpeggio is played in the root position, ascending and descending in a gentle, continuous motion
As the music filled his ears, he was no longer in the museum. He was transported back, over half a century, to a time when the world was alive with color and possibility, and love was an all-consuming fire. He found himself once more in his country of origin, in her studio, a cavernous loft filled with the scent of oil paints and turpentine, where light streamed through high windows and danced on cracked concrete floors. The walls were lined with her unfinished works, the canvases alive with her emotions, her visions. She was there, as he remembered her, tall and ethereal, her blonde hair catching the sunlight like strands of gold. He lay on the old leather couch, his head resting in her lap, her slender fingers tracing the lines of his youthful face.
Accompanied by a slowly weeping violin above the arpeggio A solitary deep piano chord grounds the legato
"Do not fall in love with me, my little prince," she had whispered with a smile, her lips brushing against his forehead. "Too late," he had grinned back, his heart already lost to her.
This same minimalist and meditative pattern repeats, ad infinitum
She had laughed softly, a sound that echoed in his soul. "I warned you," she said, her voice a gentle chide, though her eyes held a warmth that belied her words. "Iām writing a song about this very moment," he murmured, closing his eyes, letting the melody of their shared existence play out in his mind. He hummed the tune softly, a pattern of notes that felt like the rise and fall of waves, steady and endless. The music flowed through him, capturing the serenity and intensity of their connection, each note a reflection of their shared breath, their shared heartbeat. When he opened his eyes, she was no longer looking at him. Her gaze had drifted into the distance, her fingers frozen, and her warmth that had filled the room began to cool. A silence hung between them, heavy and foreboding, as if a magical spell had befallen her. Her eyes, once so vibrant, were now empty, a thin veil of tears blurring their depths. "Mirror... in the mirror," she had finally whispered, the words seeming to come from somewhere far away, as though she were speaking to herself more than to him.
As the melody progresses, it moves stepwise or in small intervals, with each phrase ending on a note that resolves harmonically with the piano's arpeggios
From that moment, she was no longer the same. The love that had been their sanctuary became a deep dark forest filled with fatal forces, her emotions swinging wildly between affection and despair. She retreated into her studio, her art becoming her only companion, and even in the moments they shared, he felt her slipping further and further away. She would hold him close one minute, and then push him away the next, her moods as unpredictable as the tide.
The melody often mirrors the arpeggios, creating a dialogue between the two instruments
Their final night together, she had clung to him, her body trembling with a fear she could not voice. "I love you," she had whispered into his chest, her voice barely audible. "Do you ever just want to escape?" Her words had been a plea, a confession, and he had felt the weight of her pain, though he could not reach her. That was the last thing she ever said to him.
The tragic interplay between the piano and the violin deepens into a meditative conversation between two souls
Back in the present, the Old Man blinked, freeing a solitary tear to fall, the music fading as the memory dissolved into the dim light of the museum. His eyes, once again on the painting before him, traveled down to the small label beside the frame. "Spiegel im Spiegel," it read, "FĆ¼r Meinen Kleinen Prinzen".
There is no climax, just a profound sense of endless empty reflection