The Irish Pianist


I picture the Irish pianist as a slight waif of a girl with a mess of red hair. Her face is liberally covered with freckles and her lips always turned into a mischievous smirk. She isn't cruel with her humor, but quick witted as she sits and watches the world pass by. As her fingers move, stroking the ivory of keys that can not be seen, the music plays anyways; the sound magically following her every step.

More often than not she speaks in circles and riddles, a dull mind unable to comprehend even a fragment of what she says. But to those who possess the wit, the beauty of her speech captures us.

Being her friend is an adventure I adore being a part of :D

The End

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