And so begins my descent into madness with this obsessive love affair. Your ivory keys hammer the strings of my darkened soul into a frenzy of sordid metronome; four-fourths time with this blackness! The complete darkness. I feel your fingers dance across the melodies as if it were my own body your beautiful talents could posses!

The notes! Notes! Such beauty written upon the lines of time, force tears to sting my eyes! My heart wishes to leap, my lips move to speak...But there are no words, nothing has ever been so finely crafted by a creature of the Lord! Your fingers must be of Devil's own hand! Such pleasure could have only been forged in the Brimstone fires in that nightmarish land. Not by such seraph have your talents come, but by demons! Demons from Hell alone!You tempt my ears! Your blasphemy enters and I cannot abstain - this being all too clear! I cannot bear sin you have wrought upon my immortal soul! The melody of your fingers tapping away at my heart has taken its toll. And I am taken! My grip upon my universe I had so carefully created has been loosened by your compositions and completely shaken! Free the mind has become! Free to wander the notes, keeping time with the melodies, and dancing across pages and pages of your unforgettable sonatas.

I have spiraled once before, but never have I fallen so deeply into such a beautiful black pit as the one I tumble into at your core. At your center, I look in upon myself. Colors! Oh to have such rich, untouchable, wealth! The golds! The Silvers! The ruby red shine of the chords. Never have I fallen so deeply. Your music has rubbed me green with such great envy.

Please, I beg of you... distract me from my ivory fantasy! It has done into me such great sorrow! A pang of guilt mixed with thorns of depression dive into my heart; hollow! Your music pipes into my heart an amazing tsunami of emotions; it is a swelling tide of fluid motion. A motion of such a vast, expansive, gleaming ocean can only be contained within bolded black lines stretching across the white canvas of inexpensive paper.

But alas, it is your music that I savor. I do not love you for your looks. I have not seen into your mind, to read it like an open book. I cannot peer into your eyes. For one to speak that they have would surely be telling lies! Your bones have become brittle, as your fingers dance no more. It has been over a century and a half since Death came and knocked at your door...

Ah, Ludwig Van Beethoven... Your heart may have lost the metronome, but your inspiring sonatas live on. Your music sends me into a tizzie of strange bliss and heavy sorrow. I do not know if I wish to hang myself, or joyfully waltz! I shall settle for sleep instead.