This is Jezebel in Hell

There is something there. Something that only he can see between the notes he plays. His face filled with wonder and awe, and, at times, ecstasy. And, we, those wanting souls who understand nothing and want to see inside the world, the world he sees, are left wide open to expose the empty void of the black holes inside us. That is why we take everything from them. We wish to taste what can not be seen by us or no longer felt. Passion. True passion. Filled with a spirit that we, like most of our mortal brethren, cannot understand. But unlike them, they still can feel that odd flow of life that connects them to some sort of divinity—artistic or otherwise. A magic that even the Tremere cannot manifest. And it flows through him, even now as he makes a few mistakes, even if the notes are not perfect. Neither is he. And he is perfect in his defects, at least that is how society secretly sees them, but by these defects he is closer to God than any of us because he is able to plug into the very heart of creation.

He is the conduit to the mystical experience that embodies the very current of life. 

I admire him for it. I want to destroy him for it. I want to bathe in the essence of what he feels and that which flows through him, to know that there is something beautiful that can never be destroyed. And yet, I have proved, time and time again, that my desire is a fallacy that leaves me fulfilled for only that one moment that I hold the essence within, before it withers along with their lives. Then, again, I am an empty vessel that continuously needs to be filled, its spirit evaporating into the night, every night. 

Every night it is a fight to decide whether to let the music play or let the last notes flitter in the air like butterflies on their last flight. 

Yours, 

CdV