(no subject)
[today the dressing room is being greeted with a rare occasion, a definite change from the norm; filtering through the halls from some far-off room in the back of the West Wing is the distinct sound of Violin music. not piano - violin, if a slightly less beefed up and more classical version.
but every so often a sour note gets played by mistake, or one is skipped entirely, and it gives the tune an oddly broken-sounding quality. the longer the mistakes persist, the quicker the notes become, until it's more aggravation driving the sound than anything else.
anyone curious enough to go looking will find one Allen in what appears to be his room, perched at the end of a bed with a fairly beat up violin in his hands. for one reason or another, he's left the door to the room open, and the violin case is set up on the floor. perhaps he's trying to collect spare change? who knows.]
but every so often a sour note gets played by mistake, or one is skipped entirely, and it gives the tune an oddly broken-sounding quality. the longer the mistakes persist, the quicker the notes become, until it's more aggravation driving the sound than anything else.
anyone curious enough to go looking will find one Allen in what appears to be his room, perched at the end of a bed with a fairly beat up violin in his hands. for one reason or another, he's left the door to the room open, and the violin case is set up on the floor. perhaps he's trying to collect spare change? who knows.]