The writings of Sunny Caane (3)
Listen Fredrick. Can you hear the soft playing piano? I think its coming from heaven. I could rest my soul now to sleep. Fredrick, I can play the instrument of life, she is rather the loveliest of instruments but for some her tune only yields a melancholy note. My tune has long been heard like a soft playing flute and like a gentle harp - mine manifests itself like the movement of the clear stream on a calm day - I spend my days on the sandy shores late into the cool evening when the moon beamns her quiet disposition of soft peace invincibly into my soul. O Fredrick I speak to highly of myself.
I must say also Fredrick, that i am not well trained in that art of flirtatition - I am a pitiful drawer, mixing my colours in the wrong manners. One time, I tried to sell a very fine painting and I knew not how to maintain an interest to the audience; infact I bore them and where I to leave the painting to sell itself it would have gone for a high price.
Reach for the shelf not for a masterpiece nor pick a name that birds will know - pass by the famed concrete polished prose and rest the orators to sleep tonight - but pick an obscure humble rhyme an ordinary grinder like you and I.
I don’t want to see this house not be a home there are somethings I cant go back to because I’ve let them go.
The afternoon needed a dose of a drink to numb the pain that aches my soul. To sleep now, I beg for I not to wake - to forgo the nights dread awaking at eternals sunny morning.