leaves music

I was quiet for a moment, then said, "And she used it to kill herself."
"Sort of," Bob said. "She chose which areas of your brain were going to take the worst beating. She took a psychic bullet for you. I guess it's almost the same thing as choosing to die."
"No, it isn't," I said quietly. "She didn't choose to die. She chose to be free."
"Maybe that's why they call it free will," Bob said. "Hey, tell me that at least you got a pony ride before the carnival left town. I mean, she could have made you see and feel anything at all, and..." Bob paused, and his eyelights blinked. "Hey, Harry. Are you crying?"
"No," I snapped, and left the lab.
The apartment felt... very empty.
I sat down with my guitar and tried to sort out my thoughts. It was hard. I was feeling all kinds of anger and confusion and sadness. I kept telling myself that it was the emotional fallout of Malvora's psychic assault, but it's one thing to repeat that to yourself over and over, and quite another to sit there feeling awful.
I started playing.
Beautifully.
It wasn't perfect performance - a computer can do that. It wasn't a terribly complex bit of music. My fingers didn't suddenly regain their complete dexterity - but the music became alive. My hands moved with a surety and confidence I usually felt only in bursts a few seconds long. I played a second piece, and then a third, and every time my rhythm was on, and I found myself seeing and using new nuances, variations on chords that lent depth and color to the simple pieces I could play - sweet sadness to the minor chords, power to the majors, stresses and resolutions I'd always heard in my head, but could never express in life, It was almost like someone had opened a door in my head, like they were helping me along.
I heard a very, very faint whisper, like an echo of Lash's voice.
Everything I can, dear host.
I played for a while longer, before gently setting aside my guitar.


White Night Chapter 43, Page 485-486