Maestro

Maestro bows, a motion lulls thunder, ovations a period of heeling, a clap diverts a few, then attends silence. A typical cough failed its challenge, disturbed section promptly affects a hall--indulges the jittery few. An abrupt tapping expresses with distinction and a Grandeur Hall transcends towards the respective measures that virtuous it's due. His first appearance in the luxurious auditorium, covetousness befell the many, save one. Maestro entranced a curve amidst a grand hall, fulfilling hopes of men who are dropping jaws and the prim-n-proper ever-widening pupils for cosmetics lost effects. As the thickness of the drape-enriched velour, entrenched symphonic, designer concertos, intricate waltzes, filament of operettas--richly curtained memories bliss. Maestro's music world is the gist of his being. To suggest other worlds, why bother, it's just the world of music, and that's the end of it. It's not a peculiarity when one's grasp of the world is finite and specific, that's what defines him. I certainly don't want to be in a spot when I'm in a surgical room, having my heart worked on and standing there in surgeon's clothes is the local dog catcher. There are no hidden agendas. His life is an open book. Life can be much simpler if there were more people like Maestro when he made up his mind it be so, assuring his notoriety and, without a doubt, a place for his name in the annals of music history.