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Description
When she plays.
   Her hands agile and eager, yet gentle and arched, glide over the keys, in a caress that can only be described as worshipful.

When she plays.
   She is in the music and the music is her. The energy in the atmosphere flows from it to her and her to it. She is master, and slave to it.

When she plays.
  What she wants to play doesn't come out, it creeps forth with a gentle melody, surrounds her, wraps its aura around her, sucks her into its web, weaves her into it until she can't get out, she can't escape, and she must answer its demands.

When she plays.
  She is close to it, her form correct, but slightly leaning forward, as if trying to absorb the piece, as if to breathe its life into her soul, and release it from her fingertips.

When she plays.
  You have no choice, you must listen. You catch its falls, you feel its rises, and you yourself are pulled in, another victim of such a sweet end. You don't care about what happens when it stops, you only want to feel more, only want to listen and obey the music. There is no world, it IS the world, and you are an observer.

When she plays.
  It is as if the room has changed. The air, perfumed with a scent you can't identify, only describe with words you know can't be logical. It is tension, it is fear, it is anger, it is the smell of a heart breaking, a door slamming, and the smell of a soul opening its window. All at once.

When she plays.
She paints. She becomes the artist, the creator, and the destroyer. All things begin and end with her. And when it ends.....you can only sigh......and wait for her to play again.

Description
When she plays.
   Her hands agile and eager, yet gentle and arched, glide over the keys, in a caress that can only be described as worshipful.

When she plays.
   She is in the music and the music is her. The energy in the atmosphere flows from it to her and her to it. She is master, and slave to it.

When she plays.
  What she wants to play doesn't come out, it creeps forth with a gentle melody, surrounds her, wraps its aura around her, sucks her into its web, weaves her into it until she can't get out, she can't escape, and she must answer its demands.

When she plays.
  She is close to it, her form correct, but slightly leaning forward, as if trying to absorb the piece, as if to breathe its life into her soul, and release it from her fingertips.

When she plays.
  You have no choice, you must listen. You catch its falls, you feel its rises, and you yourself are pulled in, another victim of such a sweet end. You don't care about what happens when it stops, you only want to feel more, only want to listen and obey the music. There is no world, it IS the world, and you are an observer.

When she plays.
  It is as if the room has changed. The air, perfumed with a scent you can't identify, only describe with words you know can't be logical. It is tension, it is fear, it is anger, it is the smell of a heart breaking, a door slamming, and the smell of a soul opening its window. All at once.

When she plays.
She paints. She becomes the artist, the creator, and the destroyer. All things begin and end with her. And when it ends.....you can only sigh......and wait for her to play again.