All eyes turn
To watch the vulnerable fruits of my hands and quiet hours drifting off to be critiqued, appreciated, consumed, misused, trodden on, glorified, or skewed by the greater public however they see fit is something I sign up for. If one truly feels compelled to share, he must feel compelled enough so to release his nervous grasp.
But my god;
I can’t avoid picturing Chopin having to be around to hear his most carefully crafted work as a ringtone, interrupting a meeting as somebody scrambles through their purse to make it stop.