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There is a distinctive charm of recording music at the home of your juvenescence. The sereneness of the floorboards creaking to each step and the stillness of your old toys' meditation allows for a perfect time to hit record. The rooms untouched are mysterious and elusive as if their importance must be uncovered. The grand piano, in which my nimble fingers once touched, is stationed in a room drunk off audacity. It stands still and idle, anticipating a lover for the pressing of its keys. The blackness of the piano darkens a somewhat colorful room and enjoys the contrast that its inner workings conceivably hide from. The grand piano is destiny. Its complexity crumbles the walls of this childhood playground in which these "mysterious depths" can be explored through.
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