diane

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diane is like a piano. She can sing a beautiful song when tenderly played. She is simple and sturdy. The antiquity of her structure is displayed in the sound of her song. When John sits at the bench, the notes resound beautifully throughout the house. I've been practicing for as long as I can remember, but I still hit the wrong notes and play too loud and her song is not so sweet. It is conflicting and confused. And sometimes I don't practice at all and there is no song. She sits quietly against the wall, and the silence throughout the house is deafening and sad. Ocassionally the children run up to her and pound on those fragile, ivory keys joyfully and without discretion. They bang loudly and giggle with laughter. The sound is loud and angry. The harsh notes ring angrily through the house. Over time, the strings within her body stretch and pull; her beautiful notes start to flatten and sharpen. Her songs have gone out of tune but once John sits at the bench, it starts to sound sweeter. I know I should practice my song, but I feel like I shouldn't even try.





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