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In this room, my father speaks to me just above a whisper. He tells me... Rachmaninoff composed this piece imagining he was in a coma, and awoke, not the smiling compassionate faces of his family in a sterile hospital, but to darkness, fermented air and having no room to move or breathe. Shock turns to horror as he realises he is in his grave buried listening to the dirt being shovelled on top of the coffin sealing his fate. Looking up at the wood of the baby grand and watching my father's fingers roll over the keys, and his feet fiendishly randomly pressing the brass pedals. My face was cold and pale with terror, and yet a tentative smile would creep slowly through my lips. "Play it again! Play it again!"
Odilon Redon
For the orgininal version played by Rachmaninov see
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