The Paris of Satie

Satie's alive and playing Chopin in Paris. Drops of Impromptu are thrusting in the dark skin of his face exploding its pores with light of divine revelations. His fingers are toiling the piano's keys like tools of faith, hard and harsh, allegro agitato, no breathing room, no excuse for the sound to be other but what the sculptor of music wants him to be. The artist is carving each tone, the sweat of creation is embalming his temples. Just opposite the road, noisy people at Deaux Magots are too haunted by the dead ghost of Hemingway, to listen to the living Satie lost in the labyrinth of Chopin's fantasie emotions in C-sharp minor. And it doesn't matter that just several faces are crying in front of the piano, and few metal coins are dropping in the hat...tonight...tonight the Paris belongs to Satie!