A lot of music. Little of it known today. Solo. Violin. Mostly. Word, frequently used here: dilettante. 

The guilt. Of a musician. Is not if composes bad music. Not at all. It is still music. Someone would listen to it, someone else would get a nice day out of it. No. It is not the quality. It is the existence. The guilt of the musician is to stop to compose. At all. Why is that a guilt? Because of the very nature of music. The thing is, it is not simply a music. It takes something, it changes it, makes it invisible, sends it through the air, makes thousands of atoms to jiggle around in a playful way, and reaches somebody. The one that gets the message. And all messages have but one distinctive feature. They carry information.

If you are a musician you are destined to compose. Actually, you can't stop doing it. It is not a matter of choice. It is like with the painter. The painter sees. He might not even paint. But he sees. Like the writer. She reads. She does not need to write. Musicians. They listen. All they hear is music. So to stop to compose means to stop to listen. To stop to listen means you are dead. Or, you are not a musician. But you are. So, you are dead.

There was a small girl that lived on the street, right next to the corner where the old musician lived. She had light brown skirt and lively eyes. Not brown. Every evening she looked up the window of the musician and listened to the music.

The musician had difficult moments. Ever musician does. So, after once he wrote a sad song, the girl felt unhappy and thought that the musician would never write another song for her. Somehow the old man sensed this and because he could not stand the girl to be unhappy he decided to continue. In other words he did not want to die. Yet.

Evening. Night. Time. Girl. Woman.

Another night. The woman climbs the stairs. For a first time. Ever. The music never stopped for all these years. The wooden steps squeaked funny. Door. Unlocked. The woman opens the door. Table. Note. Yellow paper. Whitened ink. Almost unreadable. Still. The musician was long gone. The music never stopped. Continued in this very squeaky moment.

No guilt.