The party’s over, the bar has been shattered by a whisky-induced craze, yet the piano still makes the morning sound like there’s a hope. The sunset and the sunrise are always so similar in that new and unknown zone of your life. The last drunken lady stares at the counter with a look of disbelief. The piano still plays for her. And for you too, if you’re smart enough to grab the right notes when you shyly pass the corridor.
The Many Whiskers Of The Snowcat 