Music, sweet music. A cocoon and a shield, wrapping him so he can hide from the world. Music, holding him close so he does not exist. Cradling him so gentle. The Work might be his wife, but the Music is his mistress, his secret lover who blocks out everything else, and murmurs soft stories in its harmony. How could he live without it, without the caressing sonatas and whispered nocturnes?
The soft glow of candlelight in the darkness, words breathed across his skin. A prayer, an acceptance that he is not wrong he is merely different and there is no harm in that. Gentle music, washing all thoughts from his mind. Here he can simply be, stripped of all titles and names. To simply be, the soft strains lapping at his ears. What need is there for anything more than that?
Let the world continue on, let it turn around and pass by. He is too tired for it. With music he is allowed to be tired, allowed not to see if he wants to. Allowed to simply let it wash over him, as it is now, wrapping him in another layer of warmth. He needs these layers. Their weight stops him thinking and lets him sleep and morphine was never able to do that.
It's so nice to just breathe.