His hands swept lightly over the piano’s keys, a beautiful melody springing forth seemingly out of nothing. The notes danced before him, the music creating an aura about him. He swayed slightly as the rhythms of Beethoven, of Mozart, of Chopin, and of his own creations whirled through his senses, overloading them, numbing them.
Outside, the bombs fell, the people screamed, the pyroclasms continued. Death piled itself up outside his door, but he never saw it. The melody of Beethoven’s Ninth, of Mozart’s Sonata in C, of the piano’s music protected him.
All around him, the world came to an end, but he simply played on.