The greatest composer in the world can very well be a man unknown to the world. A man who is the sole proprietor of his music, and sadly, the only soul to experience the depths of musical dynamism in his own creations. On a remote island he composes, every note that he writes, every chord that he lights, soothes one through emotional conveyance; a message, a story, a purpose interpreted through the mathematical patterns that so instigate what we call music, yet, on his own tribal level, has had the ability to succeed even the best composers known to man. Yet in all the glory of his production, he is left in his lonesome, a kindred spirit of no notoriety, seeking out only the opportunity to explore the dimensions of his brain that create his sweeping compositions. Quite the shame, once he is gone, his legend forgotten, he and his music will become nothing more than the whisper in the wind, the crush of the waves on the salted sandy beaches, the calls of tropical wildlife, the glimpse of dawn and the besetting of dusk.
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