Harmonic Breaststroke

I awake, trembling, cold with sweat on the tiles of an unknown room. My neck feels stiff and there is a slight sensation of distortion sweeping upon my brain in intervals. The cadences are marked clearly on the sheets, but the rain washes the ink away. The violinist hums away none, following the direction of the flowing notes flooding the sink. As it overflows, my vessel is overtaken by pirates and my body gives way to the floor. The music sounds all around me and my face is blue with interludes. I open my eyes to the see the white of the ceiling and feel this illusion leaving me. Splash some water on my face, but there’s only ink. I cannot awake. In the mirror behind me the violinist appears. He smiles and starts up a solemn-type tune. My insides unravel to the sound of the dying composition. Water consumes his lungs put he plays none the less. Somehow I manage to breathe and find myself tapping my foot to the beat. I fall apart to the symphony of the sinner and disintegrate into the notes and chords surrounding me.