He seemed to remember less and less every year. He never forgot his music, but his past, bits and pieces of his history, they would disappear at random, slipping right out of his head. And when they were gone, and he looked for them, he would find the music in their place. Always there was the music, rumbling through his head. It seemed to be growing, taking over perhaps. The idea did not bother him. The music could carry and form his thoughts and memories just as well as words and images. He thought of the music that echoed in his head now, notes dropping across his neurons like bits of fire, white-black-white-black on the keys. Oh, he could hear it in his head, hear it so sweetly, and so perfectly, and yet his fingers refused to coax it from the piano.

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