#exhibit 3

Benjamin Rabier Gédéon Traverse l'Atlantique [Excerpt-2] [2/8] 1933

Benjamin Rabier Gédéon Traverse l'Atlantique [Excerpt-7] [7/8] 1933

Benjamin Rabier Gédéon Traverse l'Atlantique [Excerpt-6] [6/8] 1933

Benjamin Rabier Gédéon Traverse l'Atlantique [Excerpt-5] [5/8] 1933

Benjamin Rabier Gédéon Traverse l'Atlantique [Excerpt-3] [3/8] 1933

Benjamin Rabier Gédéon Traverse l'Atlantique [Excerpt-8][Pin Up] [8/8] 1933

my hands always move from side to side

tapping my leg the air or the table

i hear sounds around me constantly

the monotonous bells in the dusty hallway

that feel like they’re calling to me

i see your art on the kitchen counter

it’s black and white, a postcard

i feel like I’m being taunted

you’re in my dreams frequently

i hear your voice and feel your hand

the sick, shaky hand turns back into the soft, sturdy one i once knew you to have

your piano is all alone

alone in that room where you used to play

i can picture it more clearly than my own reflection

the room is covered in brown and pale yellows

there’s faded florals on the furniture

I’d never noticed how faded they could become until you faded from me

i miss the times when i was young

chubby cheeks and pigtails

running around to avoid practicing

i played the songs from frozen on the keys

i never played from your book of hymns

you told me to stop pecking on the piano