A note, written in ivory. Smooth, cool ivory. A note written in the finest white ink, waiting. Waiting for a master to read it and transform it. Transform it in a way only a mater could, a master who can see what is waiting beneath the single piece of the puzzle. A piece with eighty seven brothers. Eighty eight notes, waiting. Graceful fingers, they caress the notes softly, like a lover would his wife. He reads them, their wishes, dreams, and lies. Gently, he strokes the keys, and begins. He weaves his story with the words from the notes. He tells about love, hate, death, life. Forgiveness and light, darkness and depression, he jerks around your heart and coaxes your tears with the beauty of his words. When he is done, a new note is written. Waiting, in its ivory tomb, for a master who can decipher it.