Death of a Composer

The Composer found his seat as the audience quieted. No one knew he was here. They all thought he was still waiting in the hospital. After all, that's where the only hope was.
The Composer knew better. Hope died with the metastasis that even now stole his senses. He had lost sight an hour ago, he could hardly feel the polished wood beneath his hands, and a distinct taste of copper filled his mouth. His reason, he supposed, was gone already if he had come here.
But he could hear. As the tuning began, he could see a picture in his mind of every instrument - where it was and how it was being played.
A spasm wracked his body for at least a minute. The longest yet. When the pain lessened enough that he could think again, all was silence.
A lone flute sounded out a pure note, like a violet crystal hanging in the darkness. An icy eternity stretched out forever until the oboes and clarinets joined. The music slowly swelled, adding instruments into a quiet crest.
The Composer raised a finger.
The music burst forth in a golden wave. It rose up and swept the Composer from his chair. He was enveloped in it as it ferried him safely through the walls and up, up past the farthest reaches of existence. It didn't dissipate until he was well and truly alone.
The wave was gone. But a Music was still there. The Composer smiled, and when it caused him no pain to do so, he laughed. Pythagoras had been right. The cosmos made the greatest song to ever be played. It spread before the Composer, all creation laid open to him.
The Music of the Spheres sang to him. And he could improve it.