Personal Narrative-Baldwin Acrosonic Piano

Blinding sunshine flooded into the room, coating the furniture in a vibrant golden sheen. Baking bread lightly perfumed the air, soothing my olfactory instantaneously. Morning had most assuredly broken. I looked around and thought plaintively, What should I do on this lovely morning? As usual, my response led me to the Baldwin Acrosonic piano across the room. Due to my perceptible laziness, I avoided pulling out any new manuscripts from storage, leaving me no choice but to read through the music lying open upon the desk: the great Nocturnes of Master Frederic Chopin. I began randomly flipping pages until a lovely F-sharp minor key signature caught my eye. I just had to play this! I started scanning the piece to check for technical difficulties.
A deep, sombre C# rung out, filling the room with persistent sorrow. I continued the introduction, and resolved an augmented chord as dictated. Then, a few solemn arpeggiations ushered in the primary melody, a resonant and singing thing that always has reminded me of a reflecting pool since. The figure developed, soaring almost infinitely through the circle of fifths. A dramatic crescendo and relaxation concluded the first period with a poco rallentando and fermata. Yet again, the dark timbres of the low C# echoed across the chamber, mirroring the sunlight’s effect on the ever-still environment. Like before, the murmuring of the arpeggiations and the reflecting pool cried out, but this time, I heard a small child crying for his dying parents praying by the pool’s edge. His flow of tears spanned the gap from my imagination to the living room on that sunny morning with the baking bread. I completed the first pair of pages, but no double-bar was within sight, so I turned the aged yellow sheet, which crinkled weakly under my fingers like a burned piece of bacon, minus the
An eerie silence settled in the room, with only my mind and a few random atoms moving. I waited and sat, sat and waited, but no great thoughts were coming to my head, about Chopin or otherwise. Frankly, I was still focusing on the potato chip scent, seeing as that level of salty concentration was most absolutely unavoidable. I did my best to push these thoughts aside yet again, but this time by singing the great reflecting pool melody in my head. Tears filled my eyes, smearing light across my vision in random splotches of color, and I collapsed into a pathetic