and you look at these people, these kids, and they cant live without their music. my roommate waved his wineglass in the air and asserted, i never had a choice in the matter. i have always been and would always be a musician. this glorious bondage.

but i can live without it. i have and i can and i would do so happily. neurons synapses firing in the brain, anybody who doesnt like music clearly has basic issues with wiring. reading sotto voce turns to we are not alone and webster is at secondo and he and i are a certain tandem of gleeful through this gesture, that breath, these stupid little sequences. jesus, they're charming. but he didnt read childrens books so much as a child -- he listened to classical music. his girlfriend breaks up with him so he begins transcribing a mahler small orchestra piece for two pianos. i lie on my bed and watch as the sky turns, contorts itself purple with thunderheads. i put my hand on the wall of this second story apartment to feel it shake. it shakes. i dont need this kind of music; i dont need to give myself up into it.

the bathtub faucet is flanked by two knobs both bearing the letter "h", the hot water in the sink cant be completely shut off, these things always make me smile, my mother writes to see if so-and-so is accepting any more students, i want to shake her by the balls of her shoulders. i dont need it, this stupid thing i'm doing. these hours on a black upholstered bench. i was mispronounced on the radio, next to the luminary student who is playing at carnegie hall soon. people talk to me like i could do something, actually, something, and webster foists all the hard parts of liebeslieder in my direction. i take them. i play so i can play more but, you know what? this summer i've spent more hours on the seat of my bicycle than at the piano. there is this little white house that i ride by a couple times a week on the way to the beach and in my mind it is so full of red and yellow flowers that they are tipping out the window like the hem of a cotton summer dress.