XXII. "the sweet piano writing down my life"

He conceals himself in one of the cavern's many secret alcoves while they search for him. He is not worried; he knows they will never find him, and will probably leave the ill-boding chamber soon. At least, he hopes they will leave quickly. Although he has called this place home since boyhood, he now wishes to leave it as soon as he may.

He will gather his manuscripts and his few cherished belongings, and go. It does not matter where; all that matters is that he can get out of this self-made Hell, where there is no beauty save that of darkness which he creates himself. There is nothing left for him here.

His one regret about leaving is that he will have to leave his organ behind. The old thing played like a dream – that is, a dream full of fantasies of eerie resplendence, he thinks. This was the way he liked it; it has been his companion, giving voice to his music even before she did. He wonders if perhaps he could pay a handsome sum of money to have it shipped to... wherever it is that he is going. For it befits the nature of his music, in all its despondency and blind hope and fantastic madness.