It gradually swelled itself - like an itch demanding to be scratched - the urge to play my piano again. Not just any piano, though. Mine. Only.

I'd taken it as a sign of sorts that over the course of the last 5 days, on three separate incidents, three friends, of whom none read this blog, have asked if I'm still playing the piano. Sojourns into the realm of producing music have been woefully scant; the foreignness of the sound emanating from the keyboard made apparent the stiffness in my fingers.

In the kitchen, after an hour of embarrassing struggle, like a stroke patient painfully re-learning to walk, my mom casually, in a matter-of-fact manner, remarked 剛才彈得很糟糕, hor?

I might do it again tomorrow. Perhaps J S Bach's Italian Concerto might have been too ambitious a piece to start with, after being dry for two years. How horrible that this was a piece I'd performed well, too. Haven't yet dared to touch the Appassionata - with my current post-novice sensibilities, it'd be much too sacrilegious.