Köln

January 24, 1975.

What stillness rises before form?

11:30 PM. A damp night. It is late.

At last, he arrives, exhausted

a long journey to a full house 

and a broken piano, almost failing.

The keys—too soft, too shallow, some out of tune.

Still, he sits.

Not to play. Not yet.

But to listen—to the silence, to the room, to what lies beyond the flaw

He closes his eyes. A breath. A sigh.

A note—almost.

Again, it slips away. He listens.

The room holds its breath—not waiting, not knowing.

A phrase barely formed, rises—wavers, circles, only to fall again.

He falters. 

His head bowed low,

                not in prayer,

                         but to the listening.

Drawn into the silence,

he lets the fractures open—

widening,

      not to be filled,

but accepted

Even broken, a voice rises—

  not to claim,

      but to follow

                the echo.

Within the space,

  a few notes appear—

      the shape of something

not yet named.

imperfect—

      along the break line,

light moves.

Not mended,

but seen.

Made bare.

Held.

And still—he returns.

Each note—

a reaching,

a risk,

a thread unravelling

Not made.

Not owned.

Accepted—

a fracture lined with light.

Nothing fixed.

Nothing followed.

Form

    found

         in falling.

Each note risks

disappearance.

Each phrase

leans into forgetting.

And yet—

form builds

  not upward,

 but inward—

  spiralling

toward stillness.

Until all that is left

is the breath

that held it.

And in that last

unplayed note—

form

  fades

into

      silence

No one moves.

When all

is done,

who is

  still

 listening?

.

.

.