Of course they'd criticize him.

His poetry was too fast to read. Not fluid enough. Too slow. Not emphasized on the correct syllables. He remains quiet as he listens to them looking over the itinerary. Just a poetry slam, yet a poetry slam that published what was going to be spoken in a pamphlet. Stupid.

He blinks and holds his glass steady - just water. A formal event held for the best of the best - best Blue composers and song-writers available in the University. Big time event for getting noticed, they say. He looks around steadily at the others and wonders when they were considered the best. He's read and heard all their works. Questionable time signatures, unnecessary accidentals, too much soprano, too much bass - and that was just music. No, the pamphlet must be used so all the other performers could judge each other without needing to speak to one another or even bother listening to it in person, and he could see why.

He already gave his, and he saw his mother bloom in the crowd as he spoke. Usually quiet, he never gave anyone much to work with, but he supposes her reputation in Contemporary already gave people some signature to look forward to. He himself enjoyed Classical, but he also worked mildly in pop. It was more interesting to work with, but he'd never tell his mother.

If only.

The next performer walks to the front and opens his piece - five syllables each line, a splash of internal rhyme. The man steps forward to the mic and speaks a little faster to accentuate his words -

The front of his shirt suddenly stains like he was bleeding and the crowd gasps. he stops speaking instantly and the color drains from his face. A security personnel walks up to him in concern and leads him off stage.

He's surprised. The glass in his hand trembles. What were the words? He looks at the pamphlet and leaves the auditorium, feeling something scary in him rise and he forces himself to throw the paper out. He's finished with the slam, so he's finished for the event. He doesn't need to stay.

It's still light out when he gets home and unlcoks the front door. His family was still at the slam, and they'd tell him about it later, but he wanted to be alone. It was safer when he was home alone anyway, though he didn't understand why.

His head was still spinning. He's heard of people changing colors like that, but he didn't know it responded so aggressively. The poem was innocent at best, just spoken wrong? How was that possible?

He's heard of it before - Poetry defining itself into "Rap" as easy as he just saw. It made Blues uneasy. The music they knew was turning against them, like pop. Pop could easily go Red, and thats why most stayed away from it. It was a thin line, and maybe thats why he was afraid of it.

He stands in his doorway as it opens and stares at his work space. He needed to write a composition for his class to pass, and he didn't fool around when it came to compositions. He had literature spread on the ground in stacks - inspiration. Lines of thread connecting to his piano so he could imagine the strings joining alongside him. He could hear them play when he the blue yarn.

He picks up a few books to put them away and spots one with a bookmark inside of it. He remembers getting that at his Grandfather's death around a year ago, but he's never read it.

"Whisper"

He kneels and touches the cover carefully, but it wasn't old. Maybe he just wanted to feel symbolic as he holds it open and scans the contents. Each marked section had a name to it - almost like a song title - and he opens to a page to see a few words highlighted. His fingers trace over them and he pulls them back.

There was a thick section - in the back - that opens naturally when he pulls his weight off the side holding it down. String was woven into the paper in a constellation. He's seen this one before - Castor and Pollux - the Gemini constellation. This he could understand, yet...

The strings were two colors. Pollux was blue, Castor was red. 

Why?