Outside it is night. Beethoven is sitting at his piano. He slams the keyboard with all his strength and collapses. For several months now he had felt it coming. Now no doubt is possible: he is turning deaf. Slowly but surely. Deaf.
Soon the borders of the world will stop at his skull. That skull that itches so much with ideas crowding inside. As the outside world loses its voice, his inside is deafening. Thoughts, notes, continuous, unbearable. The melody he is composing winds between his pains, terrifying and reassuring. A Moonlight Sonata. Whenever he regains hope, it leads him back toward the gentle fatality of the twilight awaiting him.
Outside, darkness has swallowed the Moon. The world has become a realm of shadows. Is this the destiny that awaits him? Ending up walled in his own body? Lying amid the scores, his fists bloody, he closes his eyes. His breathing calms. From the Shadows, that is where he will compose from now on. Just as I write tonight from his shadow.
