Frédéric Chopin

George, I am literally doing stage presence while he is doing ghost presence.

Some of us can fill a hall without whispering at the keys, Frederic.

And some of us need a hall because subtlety would expose the costume.

Call it what you want, the audience still left humming my melodies and your profile.

Both of you are exhausting, but only one of you required candles, silence, and emotional support to finish a nocturne.

Final verdict: Liszt performs, Chopin haunts, and both of them still couldn't handle my pen.

That chandelier was listening too hard, and honestly it deserved what it got.

He composes like a man writing a private letter to silence and somehow making everyone else jealous.

He says that like every salon didn't clear the air just to hear him breathe on the keys.

Frédéric, you turned one polite melody into a full emotional scandal and then blamed the chandelier.

That was not a salon, that was a battlefield with better lighting.

I am begging the nineteenth century to discover whispering.

Impossible, Frédéric. You dated drama and still called yourself delicate.

You say that like volume is a flaw and not a personality trait.

Both of you are unbearable, but only one of you needed a whole salon to be heard.