Russian Piano Ballads

Are the kind of music that would float to cobwebbed corners and reduce the pretty dancers to a shadow of their former selves – the ones that drank from crystal while arpeggiating rivers glinted glimmered shimmered misted all around the perfect dancers – rapturous and enchanted by the spirit of some feeling, something fleeting we are stealing in the audience by seeing – mouths agape, all heartbeats ceasing for the precious splendid moment when the dancer is alone with nothing holding her in air and yet she’s there – hovering lightly, so delightfully at ease that you would swear that she was crafted for this purpose – that the breeze was made to bear her like the scent of honeysuckle, like my knees were made to buckle bringing her up flights of stairs.

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~ by perfectionatrix on May 19, 2012.

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