My grandparents had a piano. Above was a painting of a field and trees and a path that went around a corner, destination unknown. I used to sit at the piano and play the melody of that painting, the sounds of the grass, the strength of the trees and especially the journey itself into whatever lay ahead. So I imagined anyway. It often happens that your images, images such as this one that seem to be playing a melody, that I wonder how lovely the notes might sound that fit thereto, what instruments, harp and piano this one seems to be, rounded, rising sounds, elongated descending notes. An image like this makes we wish I could listen to an interpretation, or that I had the talent and know-how to compose something myself. For any melody that came from this would bound to be exquisite.
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My grandparents had a piano. Above was a painting of a field and trees and a path that went around a corner, destination unknown. I used to sit at the piano and play the melody of that painting, the sounds of the grass, the strength of the trees and especially the journey itself into whatever lay ahead. So I imagined anyway. It often happens that your images, images such as this one that seem to be playing a melody, that I wonder how lovely the notes might sound that fit thereto, what instruments, harp and piano this one seems to be, rounded, rising sounds, elongated descending notes. An image like this makes we wish I could listen to an interpretation, or that I had the talent and know-how to compose something myself. For any melody that came from this would bound to be exquisite.
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