He was born in a city as its fourth generation inhabitant. This meant that whenever he went, there was a story involved. So many houses were connected to several members of the family, their friends, and the friends of the friends. Since he could remember, the only thing he was able to do was to make sounds. He even developed his own way of recording his compositions. He was untidy, unorganized, forgetful, and lazy, when it came to school or household, but a book where he kept his compositions was an example of organization, neatness, and order. He started the book early in his life and kept reorganizing it, often copying by hand the entire content. Soon, a big black cupboard was filled with black-covered books, all used for his compositions. Before it was placed in his room, the cupboard with an overhanging top, florally decorated with a relief-based ornament. It belonged to his grandfather. By composition, we may understand a set of notes combined with little sketches, symbols and words, totally unconnected, but copied with an un-human perfection every time he’d be doing a “backup.” The interesting thing was that when he was re-rendering all the characters in the book he copied, he was creating a slightly different version of the image to be copied, which in turn caused him to rewrite his composition. For that reason he could not get rid of the book he copied from. He had to keep it for further inspiration. It was not that he did not have a computer, but having an altered version of the score was asking him to go farther, deeper into the mood caused by the visual power of those few lines drafted to record the mood. The most dramatic memory he had, related to his first book, given to him by his father, that was all covered with lines and ready to retain his notes. Right after he put his hands on the book, several pages were filled out with new scores. Seeing that, his father asked him to limit himself to one page per day: for the neatness and quality sake, as he explained. That’s why a separate piece of plain paper, a fragment of a newspaper, and a big black marker served him best and allowed for all the invented symbols to be embodied into the composition. He was sent to a music school that was the best in the city. The school was located across the river. It took him two bus lines to get there; he had to switch the bus and to follow the bridge listening to the sound of pillars responding to the bus’ movement. He sat in classes to compose under a table, pretending to pay attention to the teacher. The fact was, his attention was true, as he followed the facial expression of the teacher, his hand depicting it as a record of the emotions related to the subject. Later on, he’d refine the entire composition, create an opening, the body of composition, and the closing, and yet later on, he'd surprise the audience with the physic, chemistry, or mathematics related references one could detect in his creations. After school, He was often returning home on foot, carrying his big, oversized bag on his shoulder. First, he’d cross the wide, dark and busy river covered with boats, fish, and floating objects he’d never recognize, but would pay attention to. He could see the fishermen on the banks. He could watch the birds, the wind, the sailboats, and the heavy machinery doing their job there. The bridge was old, well decorated in a fancy pattern on the stones closing the sides. The pillars connecting each section were decorated with creatures carved in stone, which not only looked like singing but he could hear them singing. The sidewalk was narrow, allowing the cars, buses, trolley buses and trams to move freely. He enjoyed watching all of them passing him by, with all the passengers, momentarily frozen, carrying their stories and thoughts. There were not many pedestrians on the bridge, but passing one could become an experience. A short glimpse on their faces could register a mood, a purpose, and even the events from before and after the walk. When the bridge ended, He used to turn right to a street that was closed for the traffic except for buses. The street had wide sidewalks and big store windows nicely decorated to summarize their content in the best light possible. There were two famous bakeries, for ages competing for the best title, so He had to make a decision where to get his cake when stopping for a little rest. He’d pass an ever exciting bookstore, filled with three stories of shelves with books from around the world, all arranged in sections; no one could resist to neatly presented display. This part was usually the most time consuming in his entire heading-back-to-home trip. The bookstore was located in a giant rounded building without corners. He was given an explanation that it was for the sake of a prospective owner who ordered a house built without cutting corners. The building was somehow always shaded; it was so inviting and so close to the university he attended, when He finally started his formal musical education. Soon, it became his dream to live there above the bookstore and just go down to school. After that He used to pass a hotel, the oldest in the city, famous for its beauty and also for the freshest coffee in town. It was facing another hotel just across the street, that had a restaurant serving the most unusual, and still tasteful food. The restaurant was attached to the coffee shop that was selling baked sweets to go or to be enjoyed with the in-house espresso served in tiny, white, thin porcelain cups. Later on, He remembered how he was once sitting there for a long time, waiting for his future brother in law, who in turn waited for him patiently in another part of the same hotel’s restaurant, as it curved around in the rounded building. The street would turn into another one, without even changing its direction. This one was even wider, hosting some departments of the university spread on the both parts of the street. There was a monument of a famous astronomer, who contributed so greatly to the whole humankind, that the image of his thinking face and a special instrument placed in his hands gratified the entrance of the Academy of Sciences. There were churches lined up, followed by a row of galleries, with art visible by the oversized, yet well-protected windows. The artwork ranged from paintings, decorative glass and functional pottery, through sculpture, to decorative furniture. Some souvenir stores covered the next part of the street, as it was getting closer to the old part of the city. Then he’d take a turn and walk through the narrow cobblestone paved street, with the Theater Department occupying a tall old building decorated with some statues of beautiful ladies, placed so close to the buildings’ top that the perspective was altering their proportions. They looked like singing or engaging themselves in a colorful exchange of opinions. He’d pass a big place with the Chinese Embassy. The steep long stairs got the visitors all worked up to the modest state of their mind and were bringing them to their mildest behavior. The entrance was placed perpendicular to the building, so no evil spirit would be able to enter. Then, He’d walk through a bridge over the lines of rails on a railroad. He could see the tops of wagons that in winter would carry him for skiing trips in the mountains. He’d always get the heavy sensation of waiting for that part. There were clusters-of new buildings, all placed together for people to live in, with nicely colored walls and elevators he’d ride when visiting his best pal. The street would then grow wider to allow the old trees to take their space and shade the area. The buildings would become bigger, densely packed, and almost of the same, sort of beige color, with big entrances casted in metal. The street would go slightly down, allowing for some view on a big round square surrounded by various stores, a smell filled-pharmacy, a fast food restaurant right beyond the corner. There was an oversized bank, and a post office. From there, He’d walk by a big, fenced park, where old people were feeding pigeons, and some kids played around a fountain dedicated to an admired national poet. In the fountain, water flowed from a jar carried on a shoulder of a woman. By the end of the park, there was an ice cream stand with his favorite cocoa ice-cream sticks. They lasted exactly till he’d enter home; before that, he would pass a big zebra-painted crossing a street, placed diagonally and facing a movie theater named after a local river, and therefore decorated with a neon mimicking waves. Then he'd cut across a rondo (how odd) with stores, boutiques, the international club of books and journals that always served hot tea, a fabric store with the best collection of juxtaposed patterns, the old and new delicatessen stores facing one another through the square, a watchmaker shop, a pretzel and bakery place, a shoe store, veggie and diary stores, and finally his favorite store with chocolate and sweets.