Vienna, AustriaThunder on a cold rainy night. Sad tears falling washed away the dreams of what was and what could have been. The crowd's applause, their nameless faces float among forgotten memories in the labyrinth of life. Whispers, like curses in the twilight hours: "Play for me, master!" A solitary voice heard above all others; his voice. Beautiful as the dawn, disturbing as a lonely cry on the hills, in the recesses of the night. YES. Play for her. One last sonata in the moonlight. Fingers caress ebony keys; each note fell like a dagger to tear and splinter his soul. One stroke begets another as ink, like blood, flows across the parchment seen at the end of a quill. It was the scratch to the insatiable itch of art. The inspiration was contained in the flames of the candles next to which he played, wrote and died every time he touched an instrument with his hands. What made him bleed this masterpiece now? Was it because he was crying over his weakened senses being stripped away from him like a horrible affliction? But wasn't affliction his only cure, the very essence of self-redemption sought in the seeds of his art? Was it to ease the pain of having to endure such agony in front of an all-too-enthusiastic audience that packed the opera houses and chamber halls where he performed? And did they know his pain, these people who threw their gold and roses at his feet as tokens assigned at the funeral of a loved one? Could they even begin to understand the anguish that smoldered in his eyes and burned deep in his brain? It angered him that the aristocracy fed on the blood of the great virtuous like refined cannibals, swallowing the pain of others without the slightest suspicion... ... middle of the paper ... destiny with the last stroke of his pen as he wrote between the lines of his composition sheets. He didn't mourn the love of a woman. He grieved for his stolen sense that allowed him to enjoy masterful beauty. He was deaf and now he was truly hooked. The maestro rested his head on the piano and cried in a deafening silence, a silence that ruthlessly locked him in constricting chains from which he could never free himself. It was this that finally killed poor Beethoven and she collected it as she had collected so many others. things; absolutely and completely. For some virtuosos it was the sanity or physical ability to operate the instruments they had been fortunate enough to handle; but for him, it was his last connection to the world that left the applause of his fans and admirers drowned out into nothingness and his symphonies forever unfinished. Works CitedBethoveen