'What's that track again? The one that goes like this?' He tried to drum out the tune but resorting to queasy humming when he couldn't manage.
'Ah! That's Tchaikovsky, the 1812. It was written to commemorate a victory for the Russians,' Paul explained, bringing in the Scotch and Marshmallows.
A little after that time I found a collection containing the 1812 in my parents' CD cabinet. I pressed play as I sat down to type up the next part of my Dissertation, as had become a habit. It was forced; I had read somewhere that listening to classical music while writing helped open your neuron channels to be more susceptible to memory. I didn't particularly enjoy it.
The 1812 was soothing, however, coming in a lot slower and quieter than the big crescendo I was familiar with. It fitted: the scene was a memorial, a mournful and bitter procession. Memories would unleash more emotion later, but for now it was perfect.
Just as hoped for, the atmosphere of Tchaikovsky's piece picked up as I needed to, with the memories flooding through my protagonist's mind. But the overture was too strong: it rose the visions in her head permeated into mine, and suddenly the words on the screen burst into flames. I ran to the CD player and paused it, hyperventilating.
If it could do that, where would this piece take me next? I paced around my parents' house, composing myself, then downloaded the overture onto my music player.