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Her cello hid behind a curtain, somewhere inside his study, and he never had the courage to play at it. And time passed and his mind grew weak. One day he was startled to find out that he couldn’t remember what she looked like. And he found it most aggravating, because all he owned now was the faint perception of her beauty. And he knew that he had made a terrible mistake when he got rid of all the pictures of her.

But he, as some might still think nowadays, thought that people don’t want to be happy. No, they just want to make something that is going to last, something that is going to make them immortal. He thought that, as fleeting as life was, if he dedicated it to a higher purpose, he would become much more than just Francisc Goyer.

He did not create art for art’s sake, or for trying to fill in some free hours during the day. He did not create art because he felt this solicitous solitude well up inside his soul, or because his heart felt the bitter disillusion of not being loved back. He did not create art out of fear or revolt, or for amusement. He did not create art trying to entertain or to be wealthy. He made art because he wanted to become immortal.

Whenever he had trouble, whenever inspiration dissolved inside the endless wilderness of his mind, he would read about Goethe. “The supreme genius of modern German literature.” That was enough to make him fill at least a page, or play the violin with as much passion as Paganini would have been able to muster.

When he had finally finished writing the symphony, he slowly rose from his chair and began to walk around the room. The instruments had stopped playing, and the complete silence that engulfed the decaying prison of his body was turning out to be unbearable.

There’s always a sense of terror lurking in the most hidden drawers of our souls, masked by darkness, waiting quietly to devour our hope and desires. And in the murky silence that hid behind desks and bookshelves, that had settled in the corners of the room, he felt its presence stronger than ever before.

So Francisc took the cello from behind the velvet curtain, pressed his thumb across its lacquered surface and breathed in an air that seemed to contain, still after all this time, her perfume. He took a seat on one of the chairs and began to play. It was electricity that seemed to caresses his neck and shoulders, building a web of sensations that danced on his skin. It was as if, and he knew it was such a bizarre and absurd thought, a part of her was still there, lingering on the cello’s strings, a part of her soul, of her love.

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