Even his throat is as hoarse and thick as a cello, but unfortunately few people are moved by his throat and the sound of the piano. Only the white pigeons in the square will flutter when they hear his whispers, seeing those winding overpasses and neat parking lots from above the city, all the industrial miracles, under the wings of the pigeons, are endowed with some meaning of existence. A mood like "God's Eye" swirls in the audience's heart. Floating like music in the air. . . . .
He likes to play the two-string violin that no one listens to in the underpass of traffic, and the dirt in his fingernails and the little bugs hopping around in his trousers resonate with the sound.
His name is Nathaniel.
Nathaniel with the "Garman" hairstyle, his music is not used to being dominated, he needs to run away, keep running, get away from the all-white hustle - hide and crouch alone in the corner, it will give him A sense of security, a musical instrument that can protect his life. So the underground passage is safe, the traffic is not the point, the point is that no one will come to care about his music, is his art destined to be lonely? You know, when a person's so-called art really goes to loneliness, he is finished.
When I saw the wrinkled old woman wearing glasses, her eyes were sad but without any prayers, it was a certain dazedness, and her face was filled with vicissitudes of destined wandering. She sits silently in the "lamp" relief house listening to Nathaniel's music, cocaine hawking outside the fence, pimps, fake tennis shoes, violence that could be triggered by any trifle, city rubbish sweepers, powder and newspapers , have become distant and seem to be non-existent. Music has the power to soothe people's hearts in the standard of self. One person is Nathaniel's "20,000" audience. Here, his audience has cancer, obesity, drug dependence, schizophrenia, schizophrenia, or just neurotic all kinds of marginalized people, who knows if there are high-risk diseases like AIDS? This is almost certain. But who knew Nathaniel himself was not a lunatic? Go with him. When he was fourteen, he was lying at the window and saw a burning car with its headlights on and slowly passing through the block, passing silently like a ghost. I was completely shocked, it was a kind of walking concentration. He's also willing to be a burning car.
He wandered the streets, but was not interested in any of the shops. Mudfoot's deep sadness hides more tightly than a gecko. The sun casts a beautiful white shadow on his pupils, his life is like a mint leaf gradually withering in the sun, a black sparrow glides in the air, and the light blue mist wets his long eyelashes And frosted foreheads, back against a stainless steel mesh wall that swayed with metal, and bread soaked in pockets as depressing as a Cleveland winter—it's impossible to play the violin in that kind of weather. The breeze carried fine sand and snail shell fragments across the cobblestones of the city's central square. The aluminum-colored morning light gently lifted the tiredness of the whole New York City. In his dream last night, he was sitting in his grandmother's wicker wicker chair, grass green The bohemian knitted embroidered blanket is floppy on top. He holds his beloved Beethoven sheet music in his arms. like a child. A sturdy and curved grape under the pearly white sky, the air is full of the smell of trampled flowers, and his long-term wandering has made his fingernails gray. The cheeks looked so fragile. ——Happiness is like a red ribbon falling leisurely from the sky, constantly changing its shape and face in the process, you never know when it will land and where it will land. Or, will it fall? ——For Nathaniel, the greatest happiness is probably to be able to continue acting like this. (Note: This paragraph is nonsense and can be ignored, it is not in the video, it is all my imagination.)
His mind is full of symbols like "Sonata No. 1, F major, String Quartet", the names of the people he's encountered are mixed with them, and a head that could explode at any moment is spinning at high speed every second. It's a pity that he didn't have the money to install a better radiator for himself. He only wore a warning suit that God knows where he picked it up and took a broom to carefully sweep out a piece of "site". That's the dignity of a musician's bottom line. It's too dirty. Streets, too many newspapers and too much noise. It doesn't matter, I believe he will return to the fourteen-year-old in a dream, the child who draws strings on his arms to practice. "I hope the whole world can sleep well", "My wish is to walk across the road safely", he is not a genius, not Beethoven, Mozart or even Yo-Yo Ma, he is just a music lover.
Ps: I have never seen such a blue sky, such a white cloud, such a good sun - and it rained so much. . . . . This is bullshit. It was probably because of the heavy rain the night before, which scared me to death. The thunder struck so hard. The simple room we lived in trembled, and the river water was boiling like solidified liquid glass. I missed the days when my mother used to cover the books, clean and carefree. I hope it doesn't rain so much in Xinzheng. Don't hit such a big lightning down. Open up, take care of yourself.
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