Her hair vast and spacious; long strands of blonde hair stretch down below her shoulders; her smell fresh and curious.  Her hands were gently forcing the their way down the long fat belly of the piano, as midnight caresses blend to formulate a perfect harmony, this vast equilibrium, as her hands dance madly with the pianos tune.  The piano was an old thing, of no such integrity, wrinkled and the wood creaks from time to time.   The story the piano told was of perversion, how her hands gently fondle its central cradle, to create beautiful masterpieces that march forward in progressive thought. Her skin was getting lines all over her fingers obviously the lines dictate the rigorous patterns of Mozart enthusiasts on the best occasion of anytime playing.   The air rigid, and tense, stuffy to say the least, but the pier one candles lit held the fragrance steady. She was to say the least a beautiful pianist.  Painting euphoric feelings of touch at a time.  Her hands were somewhat decrepit, but were almost like air brushes, painting the hollow breeze to the soothe the appetite of a soul half worn out.  There was nothing special about the piano, but the older the piano looked the better it played, strange yet an accurate insight I picked up on. I guess pianos can be like wine, but we must remember this every key note, is a key that unlocks great musical potential within the thoughts of ones own mind.  From closely studying her careful movement, I noticed how fragile her pale skin was, this hint was probably from being stuffed up in her apartment playing the piano non stop.  I always felt a connection to a piano, simply, could just never afford to take lessons.