He walks down the busy street, bare feet calloused and cracked. His skin is caked with dust and his beard seems as if it has never seen a razor. The eyes, if one could catch a glimpse of them underneath the fuzzy brows, are pinched and fidgety, and his clothes are threadbare and tattered. He taps a broken fingernail against his pant leg, humming a tune. His fingers move more as his humming gets louder. The seemingly random tapping becomes precise, practiced. He moves his hand from his leg to air. His movements are immaculate, not a slipped finger to be found, and his other hand joins in.

His face is scrunched in concentration. His strides become leisurely, unhurried. The gentle flow of his fingers are slow, and if one could hear the music, it would be as soft as a bird. A woman nearly runs into him before moving quickly out of the way and giving him a disapproving glare. He doesn’t seem to notice her or any of the other people on the sidewalk with him, either. Suddenly, his fingers stop. The air feels stiff with anticipation, a held breath caught in the breast of the viewers. Delicately, his right-hand resumes a light melody with high, falling notes dripping from his fingertips. The left joins in with the harmony, darker notes adding depth to the piece. A couple of onlookers stare in fascination; witnesses to a private concert with no instruments.

His playing gets stronger, a crescendo rising and rising like a volcano ready to burst. Some passersby have a pinched, uncomfortable look on their faces; feeling sorry for this man but unwilling to say anything. His foot starts tapping along to the beat, vibrating his whole body with the rhythm to his tune. Boots with holes in the sole tap out a cadence no one can hear: thump tha thump tha thumpthumpthumpthump thump. He throws his head back, a smile gracing his features, blackened teeth bared proudly. The humming gets louder and louder as he continues his playing.

Some pedestrians stop to watch, eyes wide and jaws dropped. Not a sound can be heard but a symphony is playing, saturating the air around them. The old man lets out a breathy laugh, fingers sliding up and down the keys at an impressive rate. He plays fervently, sweat dripping down his long hair and his whole body quaking with the orchestra in his mind. Dancing his fingers up and down, leg shaking with the force of his taps, and head thrown back, he lets out a holler to the sky. Wild, unabashed, yelling like a madman in midst of a crowd of people, the old man is a work of art. The others look at him, afraid to touch, marveling at his beautiful craziness.

With one last yawp to the heavens, he plays a final cord, chest heaving and hands shaking. He takes a bow, adjusts his clothes, makes sure his shoes are tied. And he leaves.

The crowd stands still for a moment, no one wanting to break the strange atmosphere. Eventually dispersing, they forget about the crazy man, and his beautiful, silent music.

“If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.”
(Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, 1.1.1-7)