Cigerette smoke floats in the air to my room.
He sits there, in the other room, hunched over the keys, one hand threaded in his hair, a cigerette dangling from his lip, and a glass of sherry on the floor near his foot.
He plays for me.
Single fingers playing broken keys.
And I find myself loving him for it.
Love him for his music.
Love him for his magic
Love him for his madness