>>I'm sorry, Octavia, but it's irreversible. There's not much we can do other than take steps to slow down the process.
>>With good care, you'll still be able to retain your hearing for another 10 years. Maybe longer.
>>I'm sorry. Would you like to have a moment to yourself?
 
---
 
>Walking home after the ... let's just call it a 'consultation' ... with the doctor was hard.
>All the things one takes for granted - birds, street traffic, people saying 'Hello' or 'How are you?'
>Gone in a decade?
 
>Three little bones.
>Six, really. Three per ear.
>Six bones to take all the sounds from outside your head and carry them inside.
>Six bones to turn those vibrations into beauty.
 
>Damn.
>Damn damn damn blast and damn again.
 
>Of course, when one is feeling overwhelmed, one takes one's refuge in music.
>... the irony of this behavior is not to be taken lightly.
>Perhaps it's better taken in both hooves and bashed against the floor while screaming.
>Pity one doesn't know any good profanities in Pferdread.
>Now there is a language for cursing.
 
>Nonetheless, one returns to the rooms.
>Carefully laid on its side lies the old friend.
>Settle oneself in one's chair.
>Adjust the stand.
>Move the blank staff paper to the front.
>Make sure one's pencil is sharp.
 
>Tuning.
>Good thing a device exists to hear on one's behalf.
>Won't have to worry about *that* failing.
 
>In tune?
>Run a few scales. Legato.
>Feel the music flow from the instrument through one's body.
>Smile. A little.
>(One has a reputation for being taciturn, but one takes joy in joyful things.)
 
>Ten years.
>One hundred and thirty moons.
>One hundred and thirty moons to learn to feel what one may no longer hear.
>One hundred and thirty moons to place dots and lines to paper.
>In this field, one makes one's immortality through two means:
>Performing.
>If one can feel the notes, one need not hear them.
>Composing.
>If one can feel the notes, one can direct others to play them.
 
>Best get to work.