I have a confession to make.
I think we should break up.
Don’t get me wrong, you are a collection of stars. Every time I hear that little night music I look up in the sky and I see your magnificent constellation shining ever-so-bright down upon me. I am so thankful for our little infinity, but I just can't see this working out.
Anyone with eyes could see what a distinguished composer you are. What with your sumptuous symphonies and celebratory sonatas, you are a heartthrob; oh, what I would give to have you tickle my ivories if even just once. But you see, I think I’ve had enough of your distasteful dissonance. All that’s left between us are aggravating augmentations and catastrophic cadenzas.
I wish that I could taste our mellifluous melodic memories one last time. Last I remember we shared such a charming concerto; now all I’m left with is a wasteful waltz. What happened to those fantastic fantasias we were always dreaming of?
We used to have such grace and such thrills; now all that remains are minor memories and treblesome trills. I’m trapped in a fitful fugue with no end to it; it’s endless practicing, endless repeats, and yet nothing’s ever perfect to you. You say one thing but mean another. You’re just as shifty as Schoenberg, you’re as stringent as Stravinsky, and yet you still think this is my fault.
Listen dear, our time together has been rather sharp, if I do say so myself, but I think it’s time that I orchestrate this overture by myself.