Lost
Leonel could feel his soul almost compressing. If before it was like an accordion stretched thin and playing a note that was as shrill as it was high pitched, now it was an extended, rhythmic hum.
It was almost like a piano with the pedals pushed down, each not resonating longer and layering atop the next note that was played.
The notes played first began to slowly decompress, and fade, while the latter ones thrummed with a vibrant boom.
These images that coated his mind were more figments of his thought, almost like artistic conceptions that were leading his action. And yet, it was exactly this artistic conception that held so much strength and power.
Just how much had he learned about the art of thought. His grandfather's methods built atop of this, starting from the power of the word, progressing to the power of a verse, to the power of a painting and a resonate note.