La Chiave di Volta ( Double Version)

The Keystone ( Reprised)

Hermann probed his thoughts, surrounded by the stale smoke that rose from the remains of the last cigarette, crushed on top of the mound of butts that overflowed from the ashtray. The secretaire was cluttered with strips of paper and bullets of crumpled sheets over the whiteness of their virginity, the first tattered and covered with hen legs that only with much optimism could hardly be called calligraphy, furrowed by erasures traced in bulk by the golden stylus of his pen.

The thread of speech escaped with a whisper from his fingers, and he ran away as soon as he tried to grab him, he released his grip by poking his ambitions, and he remained with a palm of his nose to eat his nails.

He could not manage anything, despite all his thinking and damaging his soul, and he ended up in a hole in the water, soaking in the glass where inspiration was lost and every attempt he made to stir the bottom insisted in leading him to a meander of obviousness.

The more the liver was gnawing, the more the idea went away with a flutter of wings above the flat calm on which it sailed upwind, away from its pen and the mesh of the net with which it tried to trap it on the page.

The coward ran away !!
The rope that tied the kite smoked unrolling from the spool, and he remained with his nose in the air to observe the evolutions of the colored silhouette that circled at unreachable heights, and the mad desire to start shouting curses in despair.

He Hermann Meyer the greatest music critic in the world, the pen that made the wrists of the most famous conductors tremble, the champion of tradition who at home had launched vitriolic arrows on the Vienna Philharmonic, the visionary who had defined the amateur variation in D minor by Joan Sebastian Bach, him! the shining star in the midst of a flock of goats, knocked down by a heroin addict in patched pinstripe, a black musician with a plastic saxophone !!!

How could music be defined as a mixture of trills and counterpoints, of glissandi without construct, which was played in brothels above all ?!

He had tried to cut her clothes on her, to take her measurements using the usual yardstick, but
his harangue had stopped at the prologue, the cut guided by the template had become stuck in the fold of the striped fabric, as had never happened to him before, ending up getting stuck in the fulcrum of the scissors, and any lever with which he tried to move them did not other than making a world of confusion fall upon him.

A handful of flies, that's what remained of his sagacity, nothing but a small swarm of white insects that kept jumping in his nose, taken from their disordered flight, mocking his will to harness the unpredictability in the improvised movement.

Every metaphor that flanked them sent up his boarding to the third and quarter notes, the grapples persisted in not biting on the strides of the melody, and the pirate cynicism that was so dear to him, dispersed to the bilge sides with which the solos of Bird defended themselves from his assaults.

What a stupid nickname, "chaffinch"!
Have you ever heard such a twittering?
If anything he was a stran ...
Here !!!

"Today I am pleased to announce a new goal for ornithology, my dear readers, the most sensational discovery of the last few decades regarding our dear feathered friends. We have always known the undoubted singing qualities that some members of their meritorious family demonstrate, but last night at Charlidge Hall the incredible Strangling Goose, aka Charlie Parker, was staged in the audience 's rapids .... "

The elegant gold-plated Montblanc rose from the page.
The cursed was escaped again !!!
He could almost see the knotted sheets hanging from the bars, be able to smell the orange scent that hovered from the file resting next to the cut stumps, and there was no point in pointing the bull's eye in the courtyard, if not to frame the birdseed disdained by the hen with golden eggs, which stood undeterred brooding in the threshing floor of Colombo.