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She turns the music up, closes her blue eyes, and sits still. Being absorbed by the feeling of the song. She doesn’t tap her fingers or bob her head. Instead, she weeps. Sitting straight up in her red chair she turns the music louder and louder as her weeping turns to sobbing. The bass thumps in her heart, the piano plays in her soul. Pulling her knees to her chest she lips the words of the purest sound she has ever listened to. The bridge of the song fills her room with emotions. She can feel the artists struggle to sing each note, to say each word, to perform a perfect ballad.

She remembers when she could sing, when she could put forth a show, and inspire others to feel the emotions of music. She wishes that she could do that now, but she can no longer remember the words to the song. She can’t keep count with the piano or the artists beside her. Oh how she misses being in front of a live audients, trying to hold herself together as she sang tunes of regrets, love, pain, and hope.

The music slowly quiets, and ceases to play. The woman stops crying as her wrinkled hands reach for the dial on the record player. She turns it, and for the last time, she listens to her young self sing. With no regrets, she listens.





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