It sounds as if he is in 1920’s Monmarte opening the French windows of cheap flat and having a look over the rooftops and chimneys. It’s a wet morning and the dry artistic soul once again decides to sway with unfinished, unheard music of bandola. The slouching legs soon dance around as if the red curtains of the stage have been pulled up and with the spotlight, all the voices synchronize together and they applaud “Oppa” as he and his silhouette continue to dance along till the music stops. – The Introduction of the Forgotten Artist

Soon, it gains the pace, the bandola, the drums, and the heart, the messy lifestyle of the eccentric individual, the dusty violin, the failed relationships, yet the fuel for passion sustains. Each day producing canvas that people will walk pass by. The paralyzed feelings have once again taken up a cigarette and new wine and with a refined taste is willing to love his woman. He is once again trying to make a masterpiece.

The impoverished stardom of darkroom, the unwashed dish, the damp walls, the daily entry of the cat through the broken window, the torn and moist socks might once again force his woman, his painting, his music to leave, but he will hover around till his corpse are comforted with dry autumn leaves. His steadfast harmless obscure music will continue to live, till someone steps on it.

The rich masterpiece was swallowed by poverty and pinned to confinement; it remained unrequited.

-The Forgotten Artist

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