//Birth//

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A sound, it echoes through him, he tries opening his eyes, but fails to do so. After several attempts he forces them open, then blinding light envelops him and he starts crying. 

'What is this? It feels weird. It hurts. It's weird, this hurts me.', are the thoughts going through his tiny head, albeit incomprehensible for himself as well as to others.

"It's a boy, madam! Congratulations!", sounds that he could not figure out burst out in joy, for some reason related to him crying.

'It's scary, what is happening?', he reaches out his tiny hands towards the light, seemingly blocking the light.

"So have you thought of a name?" A husky voice asks, ignorant of the cry that fills the space around them.

"[][][][][][]", a stern yet kind feminine voice answers.

The husky one laughs, holds the tiny bundle in his arms and gently hands him over to the other, "A fine name indeed."

His cries stop as he feels the warm embrace of the kind one, peaceful and silent, he falls asleep.

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He sees wondrous things in his view, objects that soar higher than his hands could reach, structures that touch the skies, living beings that crawl around in lines apparently searching and carrying around small obscure things, a wall that one could say you could crawl through but cannot, and it is all for him to grasp, he thinks, he thinks he holds all there is to this absolute field of his. A new world full of light just for him after destroying his other world. A world where there was no light just sound. 

But around him are bars, seemingly enclosing him in a space, it limits him from his ambitions, if only he knew what they were and that he had them that is. For now he is innocent and oblivious as once all were.

'This irritates me, this is annoying, this should not continue, where are you, you the one with the kind voice, the one that embraces me warmly every night.', this thought process leads him to cry, 'This usually calls her out, maybe it will work again?' he conspires.

Footsteps ring in the distance, signalling her approach, "What is it my dear one?"

'It works, it seems.', he rejoices, reaching his arms out begging to be held once again and to be freed from his confines. 

"What? Do you want to listen to me play again? Very well, let's move to the piano room.", held by her arms, her feet swaying left and right gracefully. He comes close to a large door painted white, the woman with the other arms pushes it open. 

Before his eyes is that strange familiar object, that rings out melodies, one that shines black with several white button like attachments that ring out sounds. The sunlight bathes the object in a mysterious light.

'No, this isn't what I wanted.', he whines, but doesn't resort to crying. In fact he just stares at the object in fascination.

The woman pulls on a chair and sets herself down and places him on her laps, she then traces her fingers over the keys, and then in sudden jolt, she starts pressing down her fingers in a graceful manner,

//Nocturne Op 9 no. 2//

That familiar rhythm, echoing in his tiny mind, he remembers it all too well, that calming rhythm he heard even in his previous world, in the dark world where only sound exists, that rhythm which brought him solace in that world.

He looked up to her face, her eyes closed, a calm, expressionless face that holds a lot of knowledge. 'Was it you? Was it you, who played this rhythm in that dark world, who calmed me down?'

He felt tired now, his eyes start working against his will, he forces them open, yet they don't listen and so they close. He falls asleep in her warm embrace yet again.

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The new light of the sunrise enters, through a window, in a one room apartment, where clothing lays strewn about, crushed paper in corners all around, a table lit by a lamp which was not turned off, on a bed with a purple blanket with black cat signs, 
brown eyes stare at the white ceiling,
 his medium length dark chocolate brown bed ridden hair over one of his eyes,
 his fair skin glistens a bit due to its oiliness,
bearing a round jawline and a lean figure that hasn't experienced much exercise, just lies there, motionless.

"I'm kinda late, aren't I?" His dry lips speak out to the white ceiling.

The clock on the end table on the side reads 8:32AM;21:03:2016.

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