I find something beautifully heartbreaking about the sound of a string quartet playing in a minor key. As the first bow glides across the strings my heart moves in ways unknown to me. I close my eyes and imagine I am a fallen leaf floating atop a crisp flowing stream; the sun shines blissfully, the white clouds sporadically dance in formless waves across the blue sky, and though I am surrounded by passing beauty I feel the inevitable damnation for what approaches. We all know where the mountain stream leads. Ancient rock stands carved by the clawing marks of running water, desperately trying to escape its fall. With each bar played my heart sinks a little further as I know the end approaches, and when it does I find myself falling; at first gracefully, then as quick as it all began, it ends. The end is never quite as beautiful as you first hope it to be, because it is the end, and what is truly beautiful, never really dies.
Leaves on the trees turning from yellow to brown With a stiff wind soon on the ground Rustling, rustling A pile of leaves so neatly collected Beckoning me so they’re not neglected Rustling, rustling I jump I jump so gleefully
There is this smile again, The curve I never thought I would gain. This feeling of being thrown off a cliff, Worth taking the risk. There is this pain again, Trying to make you happy but in vain. This feeling
Standing alone staring at the flowing stream Saw those many floating with a swing and a beam And then came this slender tender one Dancing in the jocund company of another one For a while I thought it stopped at