Mozart and Beethoven are playing one after the other. The lights are dim in the room. The silence is broken by music and conversation alternately. One side of the room has a shelf lined with books from top to bottom. The coffee's just the right taste and flavour in my mouth, while outside a slight breeze is swaying the trees in the garden outside. There is a screen door through which the city sounds drift in every now and then. A car screeching loudly. An ambulance far in the distance, the alarm growing fainter by the second. Sometimes, I catch the sound of a young child crying somewhere and the clank of metal cutlery falling to the floor, then I hear a mother comforting the crying child. But the city sounds are muffled by the symphonies of the old geniuses of music.

To be blind and be able to create such beauty. To be deaf and still be able to create perfection.

The lights in the room dim even lower as I look at my environs. The room in simple yet functional. My eyes pass over small statues made of steel, of ancient soldiers and Greek philosophers. Books lie on a bedside table, their covers and titles enchanting me like all unread books do at first glances. Notebooks with thick red binding, big and thick, lie on the worktable. A page lies here and there. Some articles of clothing shrugged off and thrown casually as in a rush. A cloth hanger or two. A neutrogena oil-free moisturizer stands neatly on the worktable with the thick red bound notebooks.

A warm, dark blanket lies folded on the bed and I catch a glimpse of a shoe peeking from underneath the bed.

My coffee's almost finished and I'm lost in the symphony, wishing it never to end, to forever keep playing like this. To forevermake this moment last. To forever keep this magic. There are stories to be told in each tune and every melody has a tale. Every note has a history and it takes you back to the simpler times.

But right now all they do is add magic and beauty to the night.

The wind has picked up outside and I see thick grey-black clouds far in the distance. It might rain but if the wind's stronger it might take the clouds and disperse them.

Tonight, I don't wish for it to rain. The wind is perfect acompaniment to the old music - the powerful rythms, that gusto, that slow building tempo, driving towards that perfect moment of cresendo and climax.