As an example of my tendency to sublimize normal events, this is something that I kind of experienced receltly
I give you:
It was a simple neighborhood, all the houses looked the same, night was young, or rather being born, and lamp posts had just turned on.
As if it were in a hurry, sun set and the moon strode along. As if it were a midnight cricket, sound slipped into my ears, a subtle silver thread of performance.
Drawn towards it like a moth to the fire, I let myself embrace by the notes which grew stronger and more vivid with each step.
There was a house, a house with flickering candlelight sketching an imperfect silhouette in the dark, energetic blows and soft strokes, passionate exhalations sewed a potent melody into the chords, the reverberation of the notes changed swiftly. I couldn’t look away; I couldn’t hear away, I didn’t want to.
Entranced by echoes of marvels past, time stopped, chills ran down my spine and my brain went numb. My night went way, and I dreamt of bows.