When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky
It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.
We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.
The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.
... every available inch of his face busts into a smile - whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o'-lantern happy, which couldn't be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect.
But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?