[Oliver is on the bed in his room at Murrue's. He is dressed well, a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons open, and trousers that would have looked better ironed. The PCD is in front of him, on the bed, propped up against something. Next is curled up in his lap, sleeping, and he's fiddling with his violin (pun intended
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Lucky is as lucky does an' all.
That's quite a way to think about it. I can understand but still, just whoa. I mean, i've seen some people that have talent before but they just don't do anything, you know? They don't practice 'cause they think it'll come straight to light when they do stuff.
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Maybe some people is that good, but I en't. I didn't practice for a while, and it showed later. I'm still leery of the piano, really, or anything that en't my violin.
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People that good really can't be normal, it's just plain strange to not do anything and come out better than people that work their hardest.
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But I hate thrillers.
[A sigh.]
That's what I always say...then people keep on telling me I am that good. Kinda depressing, really.
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Depressing? You work for it so you should be proud.
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