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Suddenly, someone honked down below, a full and petulant “Hey!” pushed out at some nincompoop who didn’t know how to signal before changing lanes last minute. Unmuffled now by the favourite pullover that snagged a bit on his nose, his ears perked in recognition. The horn honked once more — an octave above middle C and the first note of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Opus 23, Number 1. His mind continued to the next resounding notes of the first movement, and he hummed along, tapered fingers conducting the impassioned silence around him.
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