Vienna, AustriaThunder on a cold, rainy night. Dreary tears falling on faded dreams of what was and what could have been. Under the applause of the crowd, their anonymous faces float in forgotten memories in the middle of the labyrinth of life. Murmurs, like curses in the twilight, “Play for me, maestro!” » A solitary voice heard above all others; his voice. As beautiful as a sunrise, as haunting as a solitary cry on the hills, deep in the recesses of the night. Yes. Play for her. A final moonlight sonata. Fingers caress the ebony keys; each note falling like a dagger to tear and slice his soul. One strike begets another while ink, like blood, flows onto the parchment seen at the end of a quill. It was the scratch of the insatiable itch for art. Inspiration was contained in the flames of the candles with which he played, wrote and died every time he touched an instrument with his hands. What made him empty this masterpiece now? Was it because he was crying because his failing senses were being torn from him like a horrible affliction? But was it not affliction that was his only remedy, the very essence of the redemption sought in the seeds of his art? Was it to ease the pain of having to inflict such agony on an overenthusiastic audience that filled the opera houses and chamber halls in which he performed? And did they know his pain, these people who threw their gold and roses at his feet like tokens awarded at the funeral of a loved one? Could they even begin to understand the anguish that smoldered in his eyes and burned deep in his brain? It angered him that the aristocracy fed on the life blood of great virtuosos like refined cannibals, swallowing the pain of others without the slightest idea of ​​it. ... middle of paper ...... destiny with the last stroke of his pen as he wrote between the lines of his composition sheets. He cried for no woman's love. He mourned his stolen sense which allowed him to delight in masterful beauty. He was deaf and now he was truly won over. The maestro laid his head on the piano and cried in a heartbreaking silence, a silence that mercilessly locked him in constricting chains from which he could never escape. This is what finally killed poor Beethoven and she collected him as she collected so many others. things; totally and completely. For some virtuosos, it was their mental health or their physical ability to operate the instruments they had the chance to handle; but for him, it was his last link with the world that left the applause of his fans and admirers muffled into nothingness and his symphonies forever unfinished.