Buffering

It was a child, frail in his disinterest, trying to the play the piano when he would rather disassemble it. He was more interested in what he would find inside, what intricate mind-boggling mechanism he would discover. This wood, which retorts with music, cannot be dead. But if it is alive, how is it a slave to his touch ? How does it wait, to wail melodiously ? He wishes the teacher would not edge him on with encouragement. Why not just chide him, so he can take offence and storm out. His playing would stop and start again erratically as he fumbles with the keys. Beethoven when he plays, a hapless child when he stops