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ive taken up the piano again. currently working on Satie's Gymopedie no. 1 (my right hand suffers. the notes for my left are too far so i have to do it with my right hand and it just becomes convoluted chords) and Tchaika's Dance of The Little Swans. u think Satie would be easier since his stuff are slower and less convoluted but he places the chords apart and im suffering.

Meanwhile, Tchaika is a delight. The piece is easy and delicate for people like me because hey. im a beginner and the most ive dealt with music before was studying (?? skimming through??) music theory and learning how to read music in general.

I still suck at it though. cant play both hands as well as i can with Satie. I'm done with page one out of four in Gymnopedie. Im like an eigth or sixth done with Dance of The Little Swans. Mostly focusing on the former.

Anyways this is the thing that i wrote about Le Crou. Unfinished. Did it on March 29. Anyways,

He was a poor man. Sickly, born with an unfortunate face, unable to grow neither beard nor mustache, stuck with a slight frame, and incompetent enough to get a wife, Le Crou was a poor man. He would spend the days walking away from the worn paths of the countryside alone. Not even dogs nor cats would go near him. The village children spread rumors about him and make fun of him behind his back. Poor, poor Le Crou who was unwanted by anyone and everyone. No mother, no father, no one at all who cared for him. All alone, just existing without purpose.

Le Crou was sad. He was both terribly sad and unfortunate. The days he walked outside the sun would shy away, refusing to give him its golden light. When he wont to listen outside taverns for the lively songs that overflow, he would walk over only to be greeted by either silence or the enraged shouts of drunkards. Nothing came to him kindly, absolutely nothing. The flowers he took care of wilted. The china and porcelain he loved to collect broke. His books, his only companions, get soaked by the rain or torn or crumpled or even burnt. Everything that made people happy kept away from him as if he was no longer to be treated as human.

He was misfortune in the flesh. If he was a normal person everyone would have known of this, as Le Crou lived in a small hamlet in the middle of nowhere, but as he is, even the schoolboys who mocked him eventually forgot of his existence. They grew older and bolder and bigger even though Le Crou stayed the same. No freckles or wrinkles or lines added to his face. His shoulders remained narrow, almost feminine and his hair stayed the same wavy brown. Although he wasn't a beauty or anything like that (quite the opposite actually), Le Crou still had his youth about him though the meagre strength he had in him degenerated and left him as weak as a young child or an aged elder. It made him melancholy, thinking that while everyone moved on forwards with their lives, he remained as stagnant as a dam.

Still, no matter how his years passed by, Le Crou never had it in him to cry. Whenever a poppy or a daisy he did his best to keep alive died, he never cried. When the cup or vase he travelled several towns over to acquire broke he'd never cry. He didn't cry and that was his one resolve, the one thing he was determined not to let life take from him. Though life may rob him of his happiness or hope or energy and strength, he would never let it break him and make him crack.

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