The only photograph of Frederic Chopin shows him scowling.
What did his smile look like?
Did he ever cry? Or laugh?
Then, another photograph was discovered.
He was scowling in that, too.
And old. Both photographs were of him old and scowling.
Was he ever young? And happy? And hopeful?
I hunted far and wide for more photographs of Chopin.
After six years, I found a stash of them in an attic in Paris.
And they were thoroughly revolving.
Whores, donkeys, midgets, and various foodstuffs.
Surrounding an gleeful Frederic Chopin, wrapped in spiked leathers.
I burned the photos, and scowled.