Caught up in Imperfection

The weather is cold and erratic and the streets are cold, dark and bare, stripped of the decorations and people that crowded them with during the Christmas and New Year frenzy. I feel as if the best place to be is inside where it's warm and well lit, where the walls of this house pulsate with a heavenly aura. I'm playing my piano a lot to pass the time, untuned and out of sync as it were. I don't really know why I play, I just do, impulsively and without thought. Sometimes I wonder if it's even me that's playing, or whether it's a distant and forgotten part of a forgotten self in a forgotten time that's hammering away at the badly-tuned keys.