It is quiet and gloomy on the night lake. The swan is melancholy. Her enchanted soul is weeping. The moon pours its light from the sky, which drowns in the lake’s abyss.
Sorcerer Baron like a black raven is circling around the Swan and laughing viciously. Caw-Caw!
Where is the prince—the young, enamored prince—who will fire an arrow and defeat the black Raven?
The taxi pulled up and came to a stop.
Jenn opens the rear car door. Before getting in, she suddenly turned to look back and throw an uneasy glance in my direction.
Francis was lost for days on end in James’ studio, learning sound recording, cleaning, vacuuming, and distributing mail. In his spare time, when the hall was empty (recording at times went on until midnight, or until two a.m.), he played the piano. He even stopped smoking weed. Basically the guy found himself in the right place at the right time.
Occasionally he shared his plans for the near future with me: to form a cool punk rock band called Crazy Brothers, record their first concert and video, and put it on YouTube.
Yes, sometimes he became withdrawn and went inside himself like a snail into its shell. But during periods of reemergence he was very fascinating: he spoke freely, even insolently at times, and was uninhibited in his gestures, while his expressions were more loose and his movements more flexible.
Looking at him, I got angry at Jenn that she had so easily written him off as a schizoid and that was that. Oh, these shrinks! They will brand a person on the forehead with the “schizoid” or “chronically suicidal” stigma, and be done.
Francis is an artist, a real artist! An artist without a stage, a movie set, or concert—suffocating like a fish out of water. An artist cannot remain for long without art, not doing what he is attached to and what God made him to do. Yes, all real artists, musicians, and painters are peculiar. But that’s what talent is for—to be special, to be unique.