The Music Ne’er Stops

Sweat trickled down into every crevice o’ his fingers, which only offset his aim e’en mo’, amplified by the splashes o’ rancid paste exploding all o’er him every second or so.

He breathed heavily & tried to tighten his eyes on the keys below him, only to cringe whenever the train would screech–as it oft did. His heart fell to the back o’ his body from the propulsion surrounding him.

But the pattern continued: he tried to press the sequence o’ keys in the right order @ the right time, only to slip @ 1 point, causing an ear-throbbing off sound.

& all the while he kept thinking with increasing anger, ¿What kind o’ idiot makes the brakes o’ a train “Karma Police”?


Collision, Pianist, Tomato