My fingers flew on the keys, jumping from one side to the other, always in time, always in the right spot.
They jumped up and down, black to white, side to side, intertwined and spread out.

Two waves of soaring digits crashed with a booming roar on one side, and then smoothly rolled in onto a sandy beach of white keys, delicately placing each finger, leaving its impression for a moment, before it was washed away again by the next wave, the next flurry of motion.

The two waves jumped and rolled, over and under, away from and towards each other.
They danced together under the bright light of the concentrated sun, pointed at them, at their world.

Faster, stronger, the fingers flew.
Frothing and billowing, they blew from one end of their ocean to the other, a hurricane of fingers, of motion, of leaps and bounds.

They grew higher, more intense, the climax of the storm.
They beat mercilessly on their black and white prisoners.
They flogged them, themselves.
A cacophony of motion.

And then, they were still.