Thereafter I went shopping for weekend essentials: a copy of the morning paper, cigarettes, biscuits, milk, bananas, stout, disinfecting towels and hand soap. Coming home I set the bag on the kitchen table, everything seems detestable, the entire place. I put the milk and alcohol in the fridge then head back outside.

I go into the veins of the city to find what now suddenly seemed like a need, Mozart's Requiem Mass.
It was his final piece, the tourniquet that compressed too tightly sending him on a carriage into an eternal bed. Dad had narrated the story for me while instruments combined in the background of our living room, singing of Wolfgang's genius and passion driving him into agony, over the edge. I used to think to myself "If only I had such passion towards something, so ardent that it consumed me and I would live for it, that would be worth dying for."
Now I know I do, it is spelled d-e-a-t-h, but I do not live for it but die slowly, romanticizing every second. 

There aren't many people in the record store so I'm easily able to find it, as well was an LP containing Beethoven's Sonata No.14 and a 45 with Clair De Lune as the A side, La Plus Que Lente as the B. Both by Debussy.
If only they had Mozart's Piano Concerto No.20 in D minor. The second movement always painted stars in my eyes, I would twirl around the living room to it while my mother cooked, usually near the time dad came home. He would greet us with a kiss on the cheek then head to the shower, he liked being tidy for dinner. It was during dinner when we had conversations about great minds such as those of these composers, and painters, and scientists. Minds too busy thinking to ever be stirred by mundanity, others too complex to be understood. With eyes fixed on nothing I could hear the keys of our old piano being stroked by my mother's gentle hands and the easiness of life that we thought we had earned. But that's over now, now I'm in a music store on Oxford road.

The last stop was at a flower shop, I needed roses, well, I didn't need them, I knew I didn't but I just had to have them. I bought a dozen "Bonica 82s," radiantly pink, and a dozen "Golden Celebrations" which were, obviously, golden. And since I couldn't carry more I asked them to deliver another twenty-two of their prettiest by tomorrow.

I'm almost home, struggling a bit I hold the flowers against my chest with one hand and carry fresh coffee with the other. I take a sip from the cup then the tote bag carrying my new vinyl slides from my shoulder, hitting against the flowers. The coffee spills a little from my lips down my neck, I frown putting the cup on the floor for a second. I take one of the disinfecting towels I carried in the bag and wipe it up when a distracted passerby carrying a guitar case spills the coffee. He turns when he notices, setting the case on the floor.

"Excuse me, I didn't see where I was going" he picks up the cup.
"Obviously" I respond unimpressed taking it from his hand to toss it in the nearest dust bin along the now-dirty towelette.
He gives me a coy smile, his blue eyes with pupils almost too big seem intimidated, "I'll... buy you a new one."
"If we meet again you certainly will, but I've got somewhere to be." I head on home.