I had once been a free man, or as free as a young man can be in a place and time where the ordinary citizens knock knees in terror of what a group of friends might do of an evening. My droogs and I had our way with any that displeased us, and several who pleased us as well.
Then it all changed.
We’d met a force to be reckoned with, one that we had no chance to overwhelm with our wit and charm and practice of the good old ultraviolence that had served us so well to date.
And thus I found myself bound hand and foot to a chair for days on end, forced to watch, forced to listen, forced to change my ways.
And forced to lose my love of Beethoven as they tied the master in knots in my head, tied him to all that they saw as wrong with me.
And after, I am a broken man. But also a peaceful man.
Unless a recording of the good ol’ Ludvig Van comes on. Then the only certainty in the world is that I will find myself curled in a tight ball and weeping for all that used to be lovely in my life.