You probably can’t understand this.

I am quite young at fifteen. But I think I have existed for much, much longer than

that. And when I think of my childhood, it is like looking through a long-uncleaned window to a world from three centuries ago. It is blurry, and heartbreaking, and

painful, but green. There is no sound-- not even music-- how is there no music! I, whose tendons are stretched from the strings of a Rosewood music box-- I, whose heart pumps the bloods of a symphony-- I, whose bones are built by the hands who pound and kiss ivory keys--- seemingly had no clue of whose flesh I was. As I gaze in head ache, I wonder if once were I not an opera house.