The elderly man sat at the ebony piano, as familiar with it as if they had grown old together. His fingers stroked and soothed each key lightly, pausing on some for effect. His hands moved without the aid of his eyes; he knew the song in the very depths of his bones; his shoulders hunched and straightened to the tune. The fingers – so dextrously flitting between notes – looked like butterflies searching for sweet nectar. He seemed tireless, as though he would never cease his melody. Never missing a stroke he played. It would not surprise me if he sits there still, blending life and music together into an indistinguishable tapestry of song for all of eternity.